


From Ashes

by dats__gayyy



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Femslash, angry gay elf, flirty and exasperated trevelyan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dats__gayyy/pseuds/dats__gayyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revas Lavellan is a proud warrior of Clan Lavellan. With the explosion at the Conclave and the mark on her hand tying her to the Inquisition, she's suddenly surrounded by a ragtag (and infuriating) group of shemlen. None catch her attention (and ire) quite like Alyssa Trevelyan. Sparks fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haven

              

Even with just sealing it, the Breach bled into Lavellan’s dreams. Swirling tides of emerald that wrapped around her like smoke, a deep voice booming something unintelligible in the background while she struggled to find a way out. When she blinked her eyes open, she thought she could still see green.

              

“You’re awake,” an unfamiliar feminine voice lilted. “Good.”

              

Lavellan sat up quickly, groaning as her head spun. She reached a hand up and brushed her ebony locks out of her eyes, noting that they were damp with sweat. As her gaze focused, a small cabin room swam into view bits and pieces at a time: a torch flickering on the wall, a raven (in a cage?), pelts hanging uselessly on the wall rather than being fashioned into something utilitarian, pots and crates and even a gold-trimmed chest scattered about the floor. Creators, the impracticality and waste screamed human.

              

Seated at a writing desk in the corner of the room was a young shemlen woman. Her dark auburn hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, framed a pale face and strong jaw. Honey-brown eyes watched Lavellan intently, and at the scrutiny Lavellan bristled.

              

“Is this another prison?” she asked, suspicious. It didn’t look like one, but the loud-mouthed clerk had been baying for her blood for her supposed crimes, and the other shemlen had looked ready to give it to him as she’d left to seal the damned Breach.

              

The shem stood, grabbing a vial off the desk and stepping close to the bed. “No, this is one of Haven’s cabins,” she answered shortly, giving Lavellan a careful once over. “And I doubt you’ll see a prison, at least not any time soon,” she added, seeing Lavellan’s blue eyes narrow. “You’ve been unconscious for a few days. No sudden movements, and drink this.” She proffered the vial, which smelled of elfroot and a blend of other herbs.

              

Lavellan pushed the shem’s hand away, sliding to the side of the bed and standing. “Keep your slog, I’m fine.” Her vision blurred and darkened around the edges, but she refused to waver, refused to show anything but strength. She stared down (up, really – the shem was a few inches taller than she was) the woman before her.

              

“What happens now? A trial?” Lavellan asked, a challenge lacing her words. It was the only course of action that made sense to the elf - why else would shemlen tend to her, after she'd worn out her use to them? She took a threatening step forward. “I will not go without a fight, shem.”

              

The shem had the audacity to look amused, a dry chuckle escaping her throat. She did not back away from the elf’s threatening approach, either, despite the fact that Lavellan was fairly sure she could snap the skinny shem in half like a twig. “It seems you do nothing without a fight.” Her eyes traced the vallaslin, June’s arrow, across Lavellan’s face. “You should fit in well here.”

              

Lavellan snorted disdainfully, eyes not leaving the shem's. “I don’t wish to fit in with _shemlen_ ,” she said, lip curling into a sneer reflexively.

              

Annoyance filtered through the shem’s gaze, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re exactly like the Dalish from the stories we heard in the Circle,” she said with a huff. She shook her head, expression neutralizing though her words were still barbed. “Proud to a fault.”

              

Anger flared hot in the elf’s veins. Pride was one of the few things her people had - it was a virtue, not a fault. “Fuck you, shem,” Lavellan spat, gritting her teeth.

              

The shemlen smirked slightly, a brow arching in just the hint of suggestion. Lavellan felt the tips of her ears heat up, though whether in embarrassment or annoyance she wasn’t entirely sure, and she took a step away, putting distance between them. Lavellan leveled a steely glare at the floor. Shemlens couldn’t even take insults properly, Fen’harel take the whole lot of them.

              

“Lady Cassandra will want to know you’re awake. I trust you can find your way to the Chantry without an escort?” The shem’s voice, while far from the amicable tone it had started off as, contained none of its previous hostility.

              

“I’ll be glad to be rid of your presence.” Lavellan glanced around the room, missing the way the shem rolled her eyes. She spied neither her armor nor her sword, and felt ill-at-ease without them. Prison or not, she should’ve guessed the shemlen would not trust her with them.

              

The shem, who was now standing in the doorway, turned back. “Alyssa Trevelyan, by the way,” she introduced, lips lifted in the ghost of a smile. “If you’re going to hate me, you might as well do so by name.”

              

Lavellan stared at her, hesitating before replying. “Lavellan,” she said at last. “Revas Lavellan. A _proud_ warrior of Clan Lavellan.”

              

Trevelyan hummed, smile widening ever so slightly. “Pretty name,” she murmured, and Lavellan couldn’t tell if she was speaking the thought aloud or if it was intended as compliment.

              

Lavellan’s ears reddened, but the shem – Trevelyan – left without another word. Once again, Lavellan felt the prick of annoyance and embarrassment.

              

_Fucking shemlen._

* * *

 


	2. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a quick chapter 2. Might tweak it a bit. Let me know what you think!

* * *

 

Lavellan was _not_ sulking. It was just – she was caught up in this shemlen Inquisition for the foreseeable future, all thanks to some mysterious mark on her hand. Creators, how she’d wanted to laugh in the Seeker’s face (who had been the first to accuse her of mass murder!) when she’d requested Lavellan’s help. But she knew that if Keeper Istimaethoriel had been present, she would have urged Lavellan to accept, to think of the well-being of their Clan and indeed all of Thedas and do everything she could to close the Breach.

 

So Lavellan had agreed to join, for now, and had fallen in with this ragtag group. At least she’d be leaving Haven for the Hinterlands soon, off to find some Chantry shem.

 

She’d love to train, to swing her sword for a good long while, but the training yard outside Haven’s walls was teeming with shemlen activity. Since she hardly wished to practice with raw recruits who barely knew which end of the sword was up, who would stare wide-eyed and whisper amongst themselves about the “Herald of Andraste” (Mythal’s might upon the dead shem), Lavellan had steered clear.

 

She’d wandered the camp somewhat restlessly. Varric, the dwarven storyteller, had engaged her in small talk that hadn’t been entirely unpleasant. He’d even told her a little about Lyra Mahariel, the Hero of Fereldan, and with a sly grin had told her that if she wished to know more, she should seek out the spymaster. “She probably knows more…intimate details than I do,” he’d said. Lavellan had furrowed her brows, knowing there was a meaning behind his words and unsure what it was, and if she even wanted to know.

 

She had followed the dirt path past the tavern and, spotting Solas standing in front of one of the huts next to the apothecary, had ascended the stairs to speak with him. While he wasn’t Dalish, he wasn’t exactly a flat-ear either, and at least he was an elf.

 

Though with his first words to her, she almost turned back the way she came.

 

“The chosen of Andraste,” he greeted, watching her with shrewd eyes and the hint of a smile. “A blessed hero sent to save us all.”

 

Lavellan bristled. “I am no hero, especially not one of a shemlen prophet.” At Solas’ raised brow but otherwise stoic expression, she continued. “I am here to mend the sky, nothing more. And I will do so in the name of my clan, not Andraste.” They deserved more honor than a dead shem.

 

Solas frowned, eyeing her and then glancing away. “Balk at the title if you wish, but the deed alone will brand you a hero, and the mark elevates you to a sort of mysticism.” He paused, but looked as if he wanted to say more, so Lavellan jumped in.

 

“Solas, why are you here? Among all of these faithful,” she wrinkled her nose in distaste – the Chantry could rot for all Lavellan cared – and pressed on, “and all of these shems?” The other elf may be clanless, but Lavellan couldn’t understand why he would give up his freedom for…this. Though a majority of the villagers seemed to treat him with a degree of respect, she'd noticed some (mostly the armored shems) glance at him with suspicion. Why stay for that?

 

Solas turned back to her, seeming unsurprised by the question. “Because here is where I am needed. Here is where I can help.” He smiled thinly, his eyes sweeping over the village behind her. “I imagine that is what drew many to this place.”

 

A wooden creak drew Lavellan’s attention. The apothecary door swung open, and Trevelyan stepped out, carrying an empty basket and saying something over her shoulder to someone still inside. When she noticed the two elves, she gave them a dazzling smile.

 

 _Not dazzling_ , Lavellan thought with annoyance. _Just an idiotic smile of an irritating shem_.

 

“Good day, _Lady Herald_ ,” Trevelyan said as she walked by, drawing out the title, the barest undercurrent of – teasing? taunting? – in her tone. She winked at Lavellan, smile widening in amusement when the elf scoffed. “And you, Solas,” she added, nodding to him.

 

When it was apparent Lavellan would offer nothing but stony silence, Solas spoke up. “Good day to you as well, Lady Trevelyan.”

 

Lavellan watched broodily as Trevelyan left, then whirled on Solas. “How do you manage, surrounded by shemlen like that?”

 

“For one, I don’t become cross from a simple greeting,” Solas replied wryly, tilting his head and crossing his arms behind his back. “Lady Trevelyan has been a useful ally since she arrived in Haven, and her healing magic has been a boon more than once.”

 

Lavellan shook her head. “A shem is a shem,” she said resolutely, a steadfast conviction lacing her words.

 

Solas studied her, eyes narrowing slightly. “Did something happen with your clan, to foster such animosity?” he inquired, curiosity and perhaps a touch of sadness behind the question.

 

Lavellan turned, letting her gaze wander over the top of Haven’s protective wall, over the frozen lake, over the gently sloping hills, over the distant trees. Her thoughts turned wistful as she thought of her clan. “No. The Lavellan clan has always traded openly with humans. The Keeper demands we show them respect. But…” Lavellan released a ragged breath, hands balling into fists at her side. “They call us knife-ear when they think we can’t hear, and demand prices they would not ask for from another human. And we hear stories, passed along in whispers, of other clans that have been attacked by them, or chased from their settlements, or da’len that have been stolen in the night.” Lavellan gritted her teeth, feeling her pulse quicken with a familiar anger. “No, the Keeper, the rest of my clan may turn their eyes and ears from this, but I will not.”

 

Behind her, Solas was silent for a time, as if weighing her words. At last, he said plainly, “History would be on your side.”

 

Lavellan snorted. _That_ was an understatement.

 

“But,” Solas continued patiently. “Current circumstances may demand more of you. Given the chaos that is engulfing the world, given your central place in the Inquisition, you will need to grant your allies a degree of trust. We are fighting for the same goal, after all.”

 

A noise of disgust left Lavellan’s throat. She would give shemlen all the trust they deserved, she thought. Which was to say: none.

 

As Lavellan turned and stalked away, Solas called after her. “Consider my words, at least.”

 

“Hmph.” She refused to dignify that with a response.

 

There was nowhere within Haven’s walls that would offer peace, so Lavellan pushed open Haven’s gate and ventured outside. She walked with swift steps along the path, eyes fixed upon the ground so as not to acknowledge anyone she passed. The din of clanging swords and grunts of exertion filled the air as she passed the training yard. Her sword hand itched for action at the sound, but Lavellan kept on. When the path forked, she veered up the hill and towards the trees there, thinking the albeit pathetic excuse for a woods would grant her a sense of familiarity and comfort.

 

She was not disappointed. The clamor of Haven and its inhabitants was muffled by the snow and pines. Birds cawwed back and forth to one another, and an occasional nug (Lavellan recognized them by their hide, which made for sturdy and light gloves that the hunters of her clan often traded for) scampered by, snuffling for roots to eat around the base of the trees. Lavellan’s nostrils flared as she breathed deeply, inhaling the sharp and crisp, refreshing scent of pine.

 

Lavellan left the path, slowly snaking her way around the trees. Her gaze drifted to the sky. Cloudless, an unending stretch of washed out cerulean. A perfect day for hunting, and it made Lavellan long wistfully for a bow. She had never been a particularly good shot, not compared to others in her clan, but she could outshoot a shemlen archer any day. Any Dalish could.

 

Well, perhaps not the Keeper’s apprentice, Lavellan thought with a smile. Poor ungainly da’len. Lavellan suspected he needed his staff as much as for a third leg as anything else.

 

A slight sound, a rustle in the snow, pulled Lavellan out of her thoughts. Mood sinking, she realized she was not alone, a robed form hunched near the base of a tree a few paces off. The dark auburn hair was a dead giveaway.

 

“You,” Lavellan ground out accusingly.

 

Trevelyan’s shoulders stiffened and she glanced up sharply. When she saw it was Lavellan, she relaxed, arching a brow. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect you were following me.” She didn’t seem particularly perturbed by the thought.

 

Lavellan rolled her eyes, pointedly turning away but keeping the mage’s profile in view. “Don’t flatter yourself. I came here to escape all the shemlen, not seek out the most annoying of them.”

 

Trevelyan laughed softly, but shockingly she stayed quiet. Lavellan couldn’t tell at this viewpoint, but it appeared that, like the nugs she’d seen, the woman was rooting around in the snow.

 

Lavellan considered walking away, but showing her back to the shemlen this soon would be a sign of, if not defeat then complacency. She had to at least get in a last cutting word to put Trevelyan in her place.

 

“Why are you here, shem?” Realizing the question could be interpreted as more curious than angry, Lavellan added somewhat snidely, “Other than to pollute the sense of calm here.”

 

Trevelyan hummed, and out of the corner of her eyes Lavellan could see the mage’s lips quirk in a light smile. “I’m not sure _I’m_ the one polluting it,” she said casually. She leaned back, angling herself to face the elf more fully, and waved a stalk of elfroot in her hand. “Gathering elfroot. It’s about the only herb that will grow here, unfortunately, but it makes a decent healing potion. Or slog, as you so eloquently put it earlier.”

 

Lavellan crossed her arms over her chest. “If you’re seeking an apology, shem, you won’t get one.” Never, Lavellan thought.

 

“I wouldn’t dare to hope,” Trevelyan muttered. She plucked the remainder of the leaves from the elfroot, placing them in the basket at her side, then stood. She scanned the area and moved to the next plant, back to the elf. She called over her shoulder, “You know, if you’d like to lend a pair of hands…”

 

Lavellan snorted derisively. “You want me to pick elfroot with you?” The very idea seemed absurd to her. The last thing she wanted was anything to do with the shem mage.

 

She could practically hear Trevelyan’s eyes roll, though she couldn’t see it. “No,” Trevelyan drawled, drawing the word out, sarcasm lightly lacing her tone. “I want you to give me a massage.”

 

Lavellan felt her whole face heat up, posture going rigid. She scowled, indignant. “I…” It took a moment for Levellan to work words out past her clenched jaw. “I would _never_ touch you, shem.” The thought made her stomach twist.

 

“Maker’s breath, I wasn’t –” Trevelyan bit off the sentence and let out a aggravated sigh. She brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Never mind. You know, for someone who apparently wants to be alone, you’re doing a rather poor job of it.” She pointed out, sounding exasperated, and that combined with what she’d said irritated Lavellan further. As if it was Lavellan’s fault. As if Lavellan had wanted this.

 

Lavellan growled, but before she could respond with the scathing retort that danced on the tip of her tongue, the mage stood, grabbing her basket, and began to stalk off down the hill.

 

“Where are you going, shemlen?” The cross demand left Lavellan’s lips before she could think twice about it. Lavellan frowned at herself. Why should she care? She should let the stupid shem go in silence and be grateful for the quiet she’d leave in her wake.

 

Trevelyan didn’t look back. “Elsewhere,” she said simply. While her voice had an edge to it, she did not sound angry. “Just – enjoy your peace and quiet, Lady Herald.”

 

Lavellan watched her go, feeling a strange mix of victory and frustration. “I will,” she replied sullenly, though the shemlen was too far to hear.

 

She turned away and wandered back along the sparse woods for a long time, trudging through the snow with slow steps. The quiet sounds of nature surrounded her, but infuriatingly, it did not bring with it the sense of calm it had before.

 

It was all that stupid shemlen’s fault, Lavellan thought, and glared up at the sky. Stupid shemlen.


	3. The Hinterlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving out for the Hinterlands. Lavellan's favorite shem somehow joins the traveling party. (Thanks to Annien for the idea!)
> 
> I'm splitting the Hinterlands into two chapters because: a) it'd be a loooong continuous chapter, and b) updates may be erratic in the near future, so I want to get at least something out now.
> 
> As always, enjoy - and if you see room for any changes/edits, let me know!

* * *

  

Lavellan was in a good mood. She and a small band of Inquisition members were leaving for the Hinterlands the next morning, which meant she was soon going to be swinging her sword and battling demons (and shemlen!) again. Her blood quickened just at the thought, and she had to suppress a feral grin. Fighting, protecting and defending her clan – that was her place, what she was best at, what she _enjoyed_.

 

Even the tedious words of the Inquisition’s advising shems didn’t completely dampen her mood. She had found Cassandra near the Chantry, and the warrior shem had immediately started discussing plans for the trip. It was refreshing to talk about something concrete (and exciting) to do, so Lavellan had followed her inside the Chantry and into the ambassador’s undersized office, standing before her desk.

 

Josephine had greeted Lavellan with a courteous “Andaran Atish’an” and Cassandra with a nod and shy smile. From her station in the corner, Mineave, the flat-ear artifacts researcher, barely glanced up at them. Cassandra explained shortly, somewhat haltingly, what they’d been discussing, and asked for the Antivan’s insight.

 

“The more ways you can think of to spread the Inquisition’s influence, the better,” the ambassador said. It was about the seventh iteration of the phrase Lavellan had heard uttered by one of the Inquisition’s advising shems. They either thought she was incredibly stupid and couldn’t remember the task on her own, or that she would not go out of her way to help unless continuously poked and prodded to do so.

 

“I will kill all the fighting shemlen and close the fade rifts in the area,” Lavellan announced, feeling it a charitable course of action and rather benevolent on her part. They were only truly going to speak with the Chantry shem and a retired horsemaster, after all.

 

Beside her, Cassandra grunted, and Lavellan thought she could detect a note of approval in the rough sound. The warrior’s expression was as stony as usual (perhaps slightly pinker, for whatever shemlen reason), however, so perhaps she was mistaken.

 

“Ah…” Josephine looked as if she’d swallowed a particularly sour piece of fruit, a worried wrinkle appearing between her brows. She folded her hands atop her desk. “T-that would address…part of the problem, yes.”

 

Lavellan frowned, regarding the gold-ruffled shem with a disbelieving stare. “There’s more?”

 

Josephine spoke slowly, carefully. “The Hinterlands has been torn apart by warring mages and Templars, demons, bandits. Even if you _were_ to hunt down every last one of them and…put them to the sword,” the ambassador paused, pursing her lips, the words unsavory on her tongue. “The situation there would still be volatile. The area needs to be stabilized, rebuilt. And that is where the Inquisition’s influence will most strongly be felt.”

 

Lavellan scoffed. “You want me hold the shems’ hands, to clean up the aftermath that other shemlen made?” Annoyance smoldered under her skin, eating away at her buoyed mood. “I am not some flat-ear servant –”

 

The door to the small office opened, cutting her off mid-sentence. The spymaster strolled in, followed by Trevelyan. Lavellan tensed – how many more shemlen could they pack in the cramped place?

 

Trevelyan was holding a pouch in her hands, examining its contents with a lopsided grin, eyes alight. “Mineave, one of Sister Leliana’s scouts scavenged some scales that – oh,” the shem held her tongue when she finally looked up and noticed the others’ presence. “Lady Montilyet, Lady Cassandra, Lady Herald,” she addressed Lavellan with the slightest of hesitance, but her expression showed no other signs of ill-will from their previous altercation (not that Lavellan cared in the least how the shem felt about her). “I apologize for interrupting.”

 

Lavellan watched as Trevelyan made her was over to Mineave, placing the pouch on a barrel serving as the elf’s makeshift research table. The two shared hushed whispers, heads bowed together as they poured over the find. Lavellan rolled her eyes, feeling more irritated than usual at the sight of the shem, although she wasn’t entirely sure why.

 

Leliana came over, her gaze flicking between Cassandra and Josephine, the faintest of frowns on her lips. “What are we interrupting, Josie? The room seems…tense.” Her blue eyes landed on Lavellan, and seemed to cut right through her. The spymaster moved to lean against the edge of Josephine’s desk, crossing her arms, exuding the same quiet lethality that a blade behind one’s back might. Lavellan suppressed a shiver. This shem – this shem intimidated her, much as she loathed to admit such a thing.

 

Josephine straightened, smoothing out her expression. “We were merely discussing the Herald’s trip to the Hinterlands, and what the Inquisition hopes to accomplish there.” An excessively diplomatic, high-road characterization to what Lavellan knew had been about to escalate to an argument. Lavellan gritted her teeth. She did not need to be coddled.

 

“Our ambassador suggested the Inquisition aid in rebuilding the area after the immediate threat is addressed. The Herald seems skeptical.” Cassandra spoke up, shooting Lavellan a pointed look. Lavellan would’ve retorted with just how “skeptical” she was, but she was a tad impressed, and grateful, with the straightforward comment. At least the Seeker had some sort of backbone.

 

Leliana raised a brow. “The Inquisition needs leverage, to develop a reputation. We can do this by winning the favor of the people.”

 

“And killing everything that’s a threat won’t do this?” Lavellan challenged, surly.

 

For her part, the spymaster was patient, and Lavellan thought she saw a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. “Not necessarily. No matter our intentions, another group of armed and violent travelers may sow suspicion – which we can alleviate by helping to fortify the Hinterlands. We need the people to believe we are a force for good, not another opportunistic invader looking to establish control.”

 

 _Aren’t we?_ Lavellan wondered, though grudgingly she admitted she could see the red-haired shemlen’s point. What she couldn't see was how it was her problem. “I still don’t see why shemlen can’t take care of shemlen problems.”

 

Cassandra made a noise of frustration. “We are arguing in circles,” she said, the scar on her cheek rippling as she clenched her jaw. Josephine watched the Seeker out of the corner of her eye, looking like she agreed but didn’t want to say as much.

 

Leliana waved a hand. “Maybe not,” she said, gaze becoming thoughtful. “Herald. I understand your reservations.” Lavellan blinked in surprise at the unlikely words. “I have scouts stationed in the area. Call upon them if there are tasks you’d rather delegate. Is that an agreeable compromise?”

 

Lavellan felt three sets of eyes weigh on her, and she tried not to look as taken aback as she felt. “Yes,” she replied gruffly. “I will fight, and your people can do what remains.” Her sword would probably win the Inquisition more hearts than her words, anyway. “And I will speak with this Mother Giselle,” she added, remembering their primary motive with a sinking feeling. Words would be required after all.

 

“It would be a boon to have her blessing,” Leliana stressed, and Lavellan could almost see her thoughts and strategies churning in her mind.

 

“Mother Giselle will be tending to the wounded,” Josephine chimed in, an unnecessary reminder. The ambassador’s eyes wandered to the edge of the room. “Perhaps you should bring Lady Trevelyan with you. A skilled healer would undoubtedly be sorely needed, and would demonstrate the Inquisition’s good will.” _On the chance the Herald cannot persuade her of that fact_ went unsaid, but Lavellan could feel the implication hang in the air.

 

Trevelyan looked up at the sound of her name, glancing from face to face, clearly not having heard what all was said.

 

“That is not a bad idea,” Cassandra said, and Josephine smiled slightly at the praise. Cassandra put her hands on her hips, addressing the mage. “If you would not mind accompanying us, Trevelyan?”

 

“Oh.” Trevelyan blinked, her eyes wide. She seemed taken aback, but recovered quickly, nodding to the Seeker. “Of…course. I would be glad to.” Her light brown eyes met Lavellan’s, and she gave a small smile. “It sounds like...fun.”

 

Lavellan exhaled sharply, glowering. ‘Fun’ was the last descriptor she’d use to describe the idea of traveling with the shem.

 

“We leave tomorrow morning, if that is enough time for you to prepare?” Though she phrased it as a question, by her tone it was obvious Cassandra meant it more as a directive: _Pack quickly._

 

Trevelyan bit her lip, nodding again. “I’ll craft some additional potions.” She put a hand on Mineave’s shoulder, bidding her goodbye with a last, somewhat forlorn, glance at the pouch of scales they’d been examining. “How long will we be away?” she inquired uncertainly.

 

Cassandra gestured toward the door. “Come,” she said. “I will walk with you, and we can discuss it.” The Seeker turned back to Lavellan and the advisors, bowing her head in farewell, eyes lingering a moment on the ambassador before she departed, Trevelyan in tow.

 

Lavellan watched the pair go with a petulant frown. Though she knew it was too late to protest, she couldn’t resist. “The shem mage will slow us down.”

 

Josephine shook her head, ready to disagree, but Leliana merely smirked lightly. “I think you’ll find Trevelyan to be pleasant company, Herald. She has a certain charm, no?”

 

Lavellan scoffed. “She is a relentless annoyance.” _Charming. Mythal’s mercy, shemlen set a low bar._

 

Leliana chuckled, a surprisingly melodious sound for such a dangerous person. There was something in that chuckle that grated on Lavellan’s ears, on her nerves. She huffed, aggravation crawling like ants just beneath her skin, and left the shems to their stupid shem talk. 

 

As the office door closed behind her, Lavellan could hear the ambassador let out a tired sigh.

 

“Mahariel was the same way, at first,” the spymaster said, and Lavellan hesitated at the Hero of Fereldan’s name. “Can you truly blame her?”

 

“Of course not,” Josephine replied quickly. “Only…”

 

“Don’t fret, Josie,” Leliana reassured with a note of finality. She started to say something else, but Lavellan lost interest. She had better things to do, after all. Like… sharpen her sword, or polish her armor.

 

Creators, Lavellan couldn’t wait to leave this cursed village and see battle.

 

* * *

 

Morning came none too swiftly, the night lengthened by the fact that Lavellan barely slept. By the first light of dawn, she was waiting for the others by Haven’s gate, feeling more like herself than she had in days in her armor, sword at her side, a travelling pack slung over her shoulder. She’d even braided her hair, which she usually found tiresome (and had since Ellera, the elder warrior who had taken her under her wing and supervised her training, had first suggested it), but she hadn’t felt _ready_ until she’d done so.

 

Waiting, Lavellan watched the horizon, the sun rosy in its rise. Back home, her clan would be waking by now, and the hunters would’ve already left. Halla would be let to graze, a warrior or two following them for protection from greedy shems. The Keeper would be wondering through the camp, taking stock and deciding whether the clan should stay and for how long. Lavellan felt a pang of homesickness, and her gaze drifted to the Breach, her marked hand curling into a fist. If not for the Conclave, if not for the explosion and whatever magic had triggered it –

 

“It holds a kind of devastating beauty, in the sunrise,” Solas’ quiet voice interrupted her thoughts, the elven mage walking up to her with arms folded behind his back.

 

A heavy set of footsteps drew near, and an accented voice replied, “You have an odd sense of beauty, Solas, to find it in something so destructive.”

 

Lavellan turned to see Cassandra striding purposefully towards them, Varric in tow a few steps behind. Both their facial expressions were stiff and drawn – so they’d already been fighting, Lavellan gathered.

 

They were only missing Trevelyan, Lavellan noted as the two approached. The mage was already a burden and they hadn’t even stepped outside Haven.

 

Solas’ lips twisted into a faint smile as he tilted his head in greeting. “You’d not be the first of that opinion, Seeker.”

 

Cassandra, realizing Lavellan’s attention was elsewhere, addressed her next. “Trevelyan was not far behind us,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder, and Lavellan narrowed her eyes at the warrior’s astuteness. “Here she comes now.”

 

On cue, Trevelyan rounded the corner and descended the last of Haven’s stairs. Her auburn hair was mussed, rather haphazardly gathered into a loose ponytail. As she neared, Lavellan spied the beginnings of dark circles under her eyes, though she seemed chipper, and was humming under her breath.

 

“Good morning, Inquisition,” she said cheerily. Lavellan groaned as the others returned the greeting, and Trevelyan grinned at her. “Lady Herald, radiant as ever, I see.”

 

Varric snorted at that, and Lavellan shot them both a dark look.

 

“Now that we’re all here,” she said, an accusation edging her voice as her eyes swept past Trevelyan to the others. “We can leave.” _At long last._

 

Cassandra arched a brow, exchanging a glance with Solas, but simply inclined her head. “As you wish, Herald.”

 

Cassandra moved to the front, pushing open the gate, and the party traipsed out. Lavellan’s natural instinct was to lead, but with a sinking feeling realized she’d have to let the Seeker take point, as she didn’t know the way (and refused to bury her nose in some shem map). Cassandra assumed the role of trailblazer without question, setting a moderate pace and walking ahead in silence. Lavellan followed several strides behind, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

 

Varric fell in step to her left, Trevelyan to her right. Lavellan gritted her teeth, knowing she was in for a headache. Maybe the early hour would be in her favor, and they would stay silent for a time, she thought with a spark of hope. And for a while, this appeared to be true. But it turned out it didn’t take words for the shem to grate on her patience.

 

Lavellan could feel Trevelyan’s eyes on her. She tried to ignore it, but it was like an itch, the longer she held off the more her attention warped around it. Sure enough, from the corner of her eye she could see the mage was staring, and more specifically, staring at her _lips_. Lavellan flushed.

 

“What are you looking at?” she ground out, turning her head to glare reproachfully.

 

“Sorry,” Trevelyan said, actually looking sheepish, rubbing a hand along the nape of her neck. “It's just –  You’re pouting.”

 

What? “I am not… pouting,” Lavellan snarled indignantly. Pouting was childish - how dare the shem accuse her of such a thing!

 

Trevelyan’s lips quirked into a smile. “You _were_ ,” she insisted, eyes shining. “It was cute.”

 

Next to them, Varric chuckled. Lavellan’s cheeks warmed in an embarrassed blush. She could feel the situation spiraling out of her control. “I was not pouting. And I am a warrior, a killer; the last thing I am is…cute.” Lavellan’s nose wrinkled at the word.

 

“Not from where I’m standing,” Trevelyan said with a teasing lilt.

 

“Then stand somewhere else!” Lavellan exclaimed, her embarrassment and other emotions taking their toll on her. Trevelyan backed off a step, brows raised. Lavellan took a deep, steadying breath. “Just – stay in the back, shem.” _Away from me._

 

After a moment, Trevelyan shrugged. “With pleasure," she said. Then, as if to prove she was truly unrankled by the command, she glanced ahead pointedly and added, "The back has the best view.” 

 

Lavellan was uncertain what exactly the shem meant by that until Varric spoke up.

 

“I think the Seeker might punch you, if she knew you were ogling her,” Varric remarked, though by the twinkle in his eye he seemed somewhat taken by the idea.

 

A strangled sound escaped Lavellan’s throat.

 

Dutifully (thankfully) slowing her pace to fall behind them, Trevelyan called, “Who says I was talking about her?”

 

Varric grinned, glancing over his shoulder to wink at Trevelyan. “Aw, Red, you flatter me!” He drawled, causing Trevelyan to laugh, the sound growing quieter as she drifted farther behind.

 

Lavellan growled, clenching and unclenching her fists. “Dread Wolf take her, I’ll kill that shem,” she muttered, knowing they were hollow words but taking comfort in the threat all the same. Maybe _she_ would punch the shem – the day was still young.

 

“Oh, Smiles,” Varric said pityingly, shaking his head. “That is _not_ how you make friends.”

 

Lavellan scowled. “I don’t want to make friends, dwarf.” She sped her step to leave him behind.

 

Behind her, she could hear Varric puff out a long-suffering sigh. “I have the sinking feeling this is going to be a loooong trip…”


	4. The Hinterlands, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traveling to the Hinterlands and meeting Mother Giselle. Character development and team bonding ahoy. Changes in scenes are denoted with a linebreak, and smaller skips in time are just a ***. Chapter jumps a bit since it covers 9 days worth of travel...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY FUCK. Sorry this took so long (I've missed you guys)!! I've both moved cities and started my first full-time adultish job in the interlude. BUT, this chapter is extra long to compensate for said interlude (and because I wanted to wrap up the Hinterlands). As always, I hope you enjoy, and if you see anything that needs editing/embellishing, let me know!

* * *

  

The party had barely staked out a campsite for the coming night, a comfortable little nook in the valley of the mountains, than Lavellan had thrown down her pack and rifled through it. She grabbed her bow and quiver, and without a second look at her companions started trekking off.

 

She’d managed a handful of paces before the Seeker called out to her. “Where are you going?”

 

Lavellan kept her reply short, curt. “Hunting, while there is still daylight.” She glanced over her shoulder, narrowed eyes glinting warningly. “Unless, after everything, I am still a prisoner?” she challenged, noticing that everyone in the new camp suddenly quieted, as if holding their breath.

 

Cassandra scoffed. “Of course not.” Lavellan was about to turn and go, but the raven-haired warrior added, “Only… Perhaps you should not go alone.” Her eyes darted to Lavellan’s mark, then away. The righteous (self-righteous) shem wanted to protect her asset. Lavellan was hardly surprised, though she wondered whether the Seeker thought she’d lose it to Lavellan getting ambushed or her simply running away.

 

Varric snorted, sitting on a log near the center of camp and examining Bianca, his crossbow. “She hardly needs a babysitter, Seeker,” he pointed out dryly, not looking up.

 

“I’ve come this far without one,” Lavellan agreed testily, staring down the warrior, hands curling into fists. It was an insult, to her abilities and to her honor, that the shemlen warrior thought she did. _But wasn’t that the shem way?_ Lavellan thought angrily. _To think so little of the Dalish_.

 

The muscles in Cassandra’s jaw bulged under her skin where she held her jaw so tightly Lavellan was surprised her teeth didn’t crack. “Yes,” she relented at last. “I suppose you have.” She pointedly turned away, signaling that Lavellan was free to do as she wished.

 

Lavellan needed no other encouragement, and she quickly stomped away with a scowl, shoulders rigid.

 

“She has a point, Lady Cassandra,” the distinct lilt of Trevelyan’s just carried far enough to reach Lavellan’s ears. The mage began to say something else, but Lavellan didn’t pause. Mythal take her companions, at least for the time being. After a full day’s march with them, she deserved to be on her own.

 

Lavellan strung her bow as she walked, checking its tautness and humming in satisfaction at the bowstring’s ensuing _twang_. The weapon felt odd in her hand, shorter and stockier than Dalish bows, made of an unfamiliar wood. It was a basic hunting bow, but it had been the best that Lavellan had been able to scour up without having to buy one from Seggrit, the shem scum (she’d heard him call one of the elves “knife-ear,” and had vowed to never as much as look at his wares).

 

Lavellan picked out her way based on instinct, scanning the area for any terrain that might host wildlife. There was a dense thicket of shrubs to the southeast that seemed a likely hiding spot, so she made her way towards that. As she did so, she let her mind wander.

 

It had been a long and uneventful march. The morning had been mostly silent, since Lavellan had settled herself near the Seeker, who thankfully was not one for ambient conversation. It had left her mind idle, and for a time Lavellan had lost herself in thoughts of her clan. She’d wondered if they’d heard about the events of the Conclave by now, if they feared her death. Had they been harassed by any demons, by any shemlen? Had they been forced to move? Had Fen’an, one of Clan Lavellan’s fiercest warriors, recovered from his illness? Were they safe?

 

Those questions had sucked her into a spiral of anxiety, of uselessness – was she really doing them any good, gallivanting around with the shem Inquisition? Lavellan hated doubt, hated feeling powerless. She would be relieved when they got out of the seclusion of the mountains, when there would be something other than worry to battle.

 

A twig snapping pulled Lavellan out of her thoughts. She stilled, holding her breath and peering through the foliage. Creators, she hoped it was something large, she was _hungry._ A few seconds later, the branches of a bush two yards ahead began to rustle and part. Lavellan leaned forward ever so slightly, raising her bow in anticipation.

 

A nug scampered out. Lavellan barely kept herself from uttering a loud curse, breath hissing out from behind gritted teeth.

 

Lavellan eyed the area for a better vantage point. Spying a tree with low branches to her right, she silently sidled towards it, pulling herself up gracefully. The tree’s leaves rustled, but nothing louder than a passing breeze might stir up. Lavellan settled herself into the crook of a large branch that overlooked a sizeable portion of the terrain, knocking an arrow and preparing to wait. She let her thoughts drift again.

 

Trevelyan had not bothered her since the morning, much to Lavellan’s surprise. She had even glanced back a few times, thinking perhaps the mage had collapsed or otherwise fallen behind, sure that such silence was unnatural. But the shem had always been there, trudging several paces after, using her staff as a walking stick when the party encountered particularly tricky terrain (which apparently included anything other than flat land). Lavellan had stopped looking back when Trevelyan had finally noticed her attention and waved with a stupid smile on her face.

 

Varric, though, seemed to have sensed her spiraling mood and had walked with her for a while. At first he pestered her with questions about her clan, which Lavellan answered reluctantly. When the dwarf finally saw he wouldn’t be able to pull much out of her, he had switched to telling his own stories about some shemlen champion named Hawke.

 

“You’d like her,” Varric had insisted when he caught her attention waning. “You both are similar in your… ah, spunk.” Clearly he’d been about to use a different, less flattering descriptor.

 

“I don’t like shemlen,” Lavellan had said, the statement sounding haughty even to her own ears.

 

Varric had only snorted, looking over his shoulder at something (someone, rather – Lavellan had a strong feeling she knew exactly where his eyes had gone). “Sure,” he had drawled. “How could I have forgotten?”

 

Lavellan caught movement out of the corner of her eye. A ram was picking its way through the underbrush, grazing as it went. The creature was thin, probably a yearling. Lavellan sized it up as it stepped closer. It would feed them all for the night, though not generously.

 

The Seeker’s words from earlier echoed in her mind: _“Perhaps you should not go alone.”_ As if Lavellan was some da’len that couldn’t be entrusted with the simplest task. As if she would run away now, abandon the Inquisition and go back on her word – her duty – to help. Fine, Lavellan would admit to herself that the thought had tempted her almost daily, but never seriously. She had nothing if not her pride, and she would never break a promise so spitefully.

 

Lavellan lowered the bow. The young ram had wandered closer, head down, oblivious. It was the easiest shot that Lavellan wouldn’t take.

 

Stupid shemlen. At least Varric, who knew best of all of them what it was like to be an Inquisition prisoner, had called out the Seeker’s insult. Even Trevelyan, the idiot shem she was, had said something. Not that Lavellan needed their approval, and certainly not their friendship, but it would be a headache to have their distrust, that was all. 

 

There was a soft snort below her, drawing Lavellan out of her thoughts. The young ram had halted in its tracks, head held high, ears swiveling, nostrils flaring. Lavellan held her breath – had she made some sound to alert it to her presence?

 

But no, the ram’s ears turned in the opposite direction. Lavellan strained her eyes, catching sight of something passing through the undergrowth several yards off. It moved closer, though not coming directly towards her. The ram’s nose twitched, and then it relaxed, offering a bleat before returning to grazing.

 

There was an answering bleat back – another ram. Lavellan readied her bow. It took several minutes, but the other ram eventually came into view. It was large, most likely the alpha male of the area, its muscles rippling under its shaggy pelt. It stopped to level a challenging stare at the younger male, and Lavellan leaned forward on her branch, fingers itching on her bowstring. Now this was worthy prey.

 

Infuriatingly, the ram didn’t come any closer. If Lavellan wanted it, she’d have to take a careful shot or move in herself. Since she’d never been a particularly good shot (she’d always preferred the thrill of close-quarters combat rather than ranged stalking), Lavellan carefully, quietly descended the tree, putting the trunk between herself and the ram to remain out of sight.

 

Lavellan crept low to the ground, the thrill of the hunt thrumming through her veins. The ram had turned its back to her, and with swift steps she closed some of the distance between them. Sensing her approach, the ram raised its head in alarm. Lavellan should’ve hidden, but she was so _close_ , and patience was never her forte. So she knelt, yanked back the bowstring and aimed quickly. The ram’s wide eyes met her own as she let the arrow fly.

 

It burrowed into the ram’s shoulder. Lavellan cursed. The wound would inhibit the creature’s movement, but nothing more. As she knocked another arrow, the ram bolted.

 

“Fenedhis,” Lavellan muttered, heart racing. In her clan, hunters were taught not to take a shot unless they were sure it would fell a target. Lavellan was glad they couldn’t see her now.

 

The ram disappeared into the undergrowth, and Lavellan released her arrow, holding her breath. A second later, the ram cried out, leaves rustling and twigs snapping as it thrashed out.

 

Lavellan moved like lightening, following its trail. The ram was struggling to its feet, the arrow having lodged itself through the tendon of one of its hind legs. That it could stand at all was a testament to the creature’s strength.

 

It turned toward her, mouth frothing, the whites of its eyes showing. Knowing it couldn’t run, the ram did the only thing it could: it lunged at her. Lavellan drew her sword, squaring her feet and holding her ground. A breath away from the last possible moment, she dodged aside, plunging her blade into the ram’s neck. It crumpled to the ground noiselessly. She looked down at it long enough to be able to ensure she’d given the powerful creature a clean death, and then looked away as the life fled its body.

 

Lavellan hefted the felled creature over her shoulders, grunting at the solid weight of it. The trek to camp was slow and arduous, and Lavellan took a handful of breaks to regain her strength (though she’d deny it if anyone asked).

 

Her muscles were starting to burn by the time she made it back. The party had been busy while she’d been gone, setting up tents and a crackling fire. Lavellan plodded towards the fire, stomach rumbling loudly at the thought of a hot meal.

 

Trevelyan was seated on a log near the fire, and Lavellan realized she must’ve started it with her magic. The thought of the shem being able to conjure fire made Lavellan wary, but she shouldn’t have been surprised – all the mages Lavellan had met thus far had been able to do the same. Still, fire seemed too powerful, too _destructive_ for someone like Trevelyan.

 

These were useless thoughts to dwell in, Lavellan chided herself.

 

The shem looked up at her approach, her eyes widening at the sight of the large ram draped over Lavellan’s shoulders. “Oh. That’s –”

 

“Impressive.” Solas cut it. Lavellan was glad she was so weighted down, otherwise she might’ve jumped. She hadn’t noticed the elf where he stood a few paced off, standing with his back to the nearest tent. He seemed amused, the corners of his mouth curling upwards. Lavellan regarded him suspiciously, and he merely raised a brow. “Hopefully we can eat all of this.”

 

Solas thought she was showing off. Lavellan shrugged the beast off her shoulders, setting it carefully next to the fire. A faint embarrassment clawed her stomach at the well-veiled suggestion. It was…false. Obviously. And even if it were true, she’d done it to instill in her companions a respect (or awe, or – better yet – fear) for her abilities, nothing more.

 

 _Damned flat-ear, Fen’harel take him,_ she thought with a touch of bitterness.

 

“With how Varric and Lady Cassandra eat, I’ve no doubt we will,” Trevelyan said with a laugh. Solas shrugged, half-smile still in place, and disappeared into his tent to do Creators’ knows what. Lavellan hoped it took him the rest of the night.

 

Lavellan knelt, removing the knife she had hidden in her boot and beginning to skin the meat. She glanced up at Trevelyan, sure she would’ve looked away in disgust or queasiness, but the shem was watching her work curiously.

 

“You act like you’ve never seen meat prepared before, shem,” Lavellan said, an accusation lacing her voice. She didn’t look away from her work, though she could probably do it in her sleep.

 

Trevelyan gave a small hum of agreement. “I haven’t.” When Lavellan looked up at her sharply, brows arched in surprise, she continued. “Mages weren’t allowed to cook in the Circle, after an apprentice tried to poison a Templar.” She frowned at the memory, and Lavellan watched as her honey-colored eyes clouded with a faraway gaze. After a moment, she shrugged. “There wasn’t much need to teach mages the practicalities of daily life.”

 

Lavellan shook her head. “Because you were prisoners,” she pointed out. Shemlen were confusing – why imprison and distrust their own, especially for magic, which was a revered gift to the Dalish clans? It made little sense.

 

Trevelyan frowned, brows furrowing. “Because we are dangerous,” she rejoined seriously, eyes staring into the fire.

 

Lavellan rolled her eyes. “You are the least dangerous shem I’ve met.” If anyone thought Trevelyan would be a threat, they were a moron. But then, the majority of shemlen were morons.

 

Trevelyan’s lips curved into a small smile. “High praise, Lady Herald,” she said, glancing over at Lavellan. She winked. “I shall cherish it.”

 

Lavellan huffed at the gesture. She hadn't meant the comment as praise, but after a full day of marching, was not in a mood to pick a fight. She focused back on her work, trying to clean the meat as quickly as she could. “You…are strange, even for a shemlen.” Lavellan didn’t think she could figure the mage out if she tried. One minute she was chipper, the next serious, the next teasing.

 

Trevelyan laughed, once again not rising to the bait, however weak it was. “Yes, so I’ve been told.”

 

They lapsed into a companionable silence, and Lavellan thought perhaps – perhaps – she could tolerate this shem. Not like, certainly, but maybe not murder, either (though she hadn’t ruled out maiming).

 

***

 

The party sat together as they ate their meal, and afterwards Varric regaled them with tales of his adventures before the Inquisition. Lavellan was amazed that, with all the talking the dwarf did, he still had more stories to tell. Throughout each one, Lavellan found herself hanging on Varric’s every word, though she tried to conceal it. Even Cassandra, who usually liked to be as far from him as possible, lingered around the fire until the moon was high in the night sky.

 

Eventually, Varric yawned in the middle of telling one of Hawke’s dubious exploits, and the party decided to turn in. Cassandra agreed to take first watch, and Lavellan wondered if that was to cover up for the fact she’d stayed so long to listen to a supposed “thorn in her side.” Lavellan wouldn’t protest, however, feeling exhaustion begin to creep into her limbs.

 

Thankfully, due to the odd number of people in the traveling party, they’d brought three tents – which meant two pairs shared and one slept alone. Lavellan was swift to claim the solo tent.

 

“We will rotate who sleeps there,” Cassandra said sternly, levelling Lavellan with a look that brooked no argument. Lavellan simply ignored her, knowing full well that come tomorrow night she’d stake the same claim.

 

“Wake me up in a few hours, Lady Cassandra,” Trevelyan murmured behind a stifled yawn. Her hair had fallen loose of its ponytail, so she let it down, running her fingers through it tiredly. “I’ll take the second watch.”

 

“If you let anything attack the camp, shem…” Lavellan warned, standing in front of her tent and glaring at the mage.

 

Trevelyan waved a hand. “I shall guard you dutifully, Lady Herald. You’re in the best of hands.” Though she was too tired to accentuate the innuendo, Trevelyan still managed a wide, lazy grin.

 

Lavellan huffed, turning on her heel and pushing her way into her tent. Behind her, Trevelyan called, "Sweet dreams."

 

 _As long as they're not of you_ , Lavellan thought petulantly. She unceremoniously dug her sleeping roll out of her pack, dropping it to the ground and curling up beneath the blanket. It was not long until the elf fell asleep, though much to her chagrin, Trevelyan was the last thing on her mind before she did so.

 

* * *

 

The days fell into a pattern. Lavellan would fall into step behind the Seeker, who was rarely talkative, and the others would trail after them. Lavellan would hunt for their food, and occasionally Cassandra would too (though the shem warrior was shoddier with a bow than Lavellan so “hunting” was a misnomer – more like scaring away prey). In the evenings, the party would eat their meal together and linger around the fire, talking and telling stories. Varric had even brought along a deck of cards and attempted to entice them into a game of Wicked Grace, but Cassandra turned her nose up at the idea and Lavellan had no desire to learn the rules of the game.

 

True to her word, Cassandra was adamant about rotating who got to sleep in the single tent, which Lavellan brooded over a good few hours after the warrior shem declared the decision (and lost the ensuing fiery argument). Luckily, her first night she shared a tent with Solas, who at least was quiet.

 

On the third night, Varric somehow managed to cajole Solas into recounting one of his tales. Lavellan, from where she was polishing her sword, wrinkled her nose, sure that any story of a clanless elf would be dry as the winter wind. But then Solas began telling of his encounters in the Fade, of the ruins and ancient battlefields he’d come across, and Lavellan found herself fascinated. Solas had smiled at her, the faintest tug upwards of his lips, when he saw her wide eyes. Lavellan quickly looked away, having no desire to feed into the other elf’s ego, busying herself with her sword once more.

 

After that, they alternated, each night someone new telling their own tale.

 

* * *

 

The fire hissed and crackled, casting a warm orange glow around the camp. The party had finished their evening meal, lapsing into a calm if not yet quite companionable silence, everyone occupying themselves for the time being. Lavellan had fished out the whetstone from her pack and was sharpening her blade, in anticipation that perhaps _one day_ she would get to use it again.

 

“So…” Varric drawled from his seat on a nearby log, breaking the quiet at a record last, for the dwarf. He glanced up from his task of polishing his crossbow, and Lavellan wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the firelight but there was a glint in his eyes. “Red, I believe it’s your night for storytelling.”

 

Trevelyan, who had been sitting cross-legged on the ground reading over a piece of parchment bearing hastily scrawled notes, looked over at him. She shrugged a shoulder, smiling slightly. “Alright. I can promise you, though, it won’t be nearly as fascinating as your tales about Kirkwall. No Champions, and no Blooming Roses.” She sounded almost wistful at the thought. From across the fire, Cassandra made a small disgusted noise.

 

“What, no debauchery from your time in the Circle? I find that hard to believe,” Varric prodded. If Lavellan started paying closer attention to the conversation at this point, it was only because she was skeptical. How much could go on in a stone tower full of shems?

 

After a second, Trevelyan grinned wickedly. “Oh, I didn’t say that.” She leaned back, casting a glance to where Lavellan sat apart from the others, and her grin morphed into a mischievous smirk. Lavellan felt the tips of her ears grow hot, and she resolutely brought her attention back to the sword in her hands.

 

“Maker, here we go…” Cassandra muttered. The Seeker peered over at her tent, as if she was considering turning in early as Solas had (and relieving her ears of the coming tale), though Lavellan noticed she leaned forward towards Trevelyan. The warrior shem didn’t want to go anywhere.

 

“If you’re squeamish, Seeker, I suppose I can start out with a tamer tale,” Trevelyan said. Lavellan could hear the teasing in her voice and Cassandra’s annoyed huff in response, though she refused to look up. She skimmed her whetstone along the edge of her blade, the sound grating to her sensitive ears. The shem had been bluffing if she was so ready to dull down her story. Lavellan had been right – a tower full of shems was a tower full of mundanity.

 

And then Trevelyan continued. “Here’s the story of how the apprentices snuck a dragon egg into the tower. And hatched it, Maker forgive us.”

 

Lavellan’s eyes snapped to the mage, whetstone clanging against her sword noisily. If Trevelyan heard, she didn’t show it, though Varric shot Lavellan a knowing grin.

 

“Y-you did what?!” Cassandra spluttered, incredulous, her mouth hanging open in shock. Varric chuckled, and Cassandra sent him a scathing look. “Why… what would possess you to do such a thing?”

 

Trevelyan’s grin slipped, and for the space of a heartbeat there was an almost haunted look in her eyes. But then her grin turned sheepish, and she rubbed a hand along the back of her neck. “I think we wanted a pet? The cat had just run off…” At Cassandra’s disbelieving groan and Varric’s guffaw, she added, “And most of us were barely teenagers at the time. Personally, I was thirteen.”

 

Lavellan shook her head. Shemlen were idiots. By such an age, Dalish were training to be hunters and warriors, slaying dangerous beasts rather than…keeping them as _pets_.

 

“Alright, Red. This I have to hear.” Varric waved a hand encouragingly. “So how did you get this dragon egg?”

 

Trevelyan leaned her elbows on her knees and rested her chin on her fist, staring into the flames. “It started when a trader passing through promised the senior enchanters he could get them lyrium for a discount.”

 

Trevelyan’s brows furrowed contemplatively. “Looking back, it was pretty obvious he was Carta and probably stole most his wares, but if it saves the Chantry a silver, well. They decided to talk his proposal over and let him stay the night.”

 

This was reinforcement for Lavellan’s belief that it wasn’t just the young shemlen that made foolish decisions.

 

“He was so different from our usual trader. He was older, for one; he had tufts of gray mixed in with the black of his beard, and a few scars on his face from some fierce battle. And Maker, his foul language made even some of the Templars blush.” Trevelyan smiled slightly at the memory. “The apprentices were all fascinated by him. We snuck around, following him and whatnot. Devan even picked the lock on the room the Templars had given him and snooped through his wares. That’s when he found the egg.”

 

Trevelyan paused, lost in thought. Lavellan didn’t miss how she said this Devan shem’s name, the corner of her mouth quirking up and her gaze becoming soft, faraway. Lavellan groaned internally, hoping that if she was going to be subjected to this tale, it would stick to the dragon and not the boy.

 

“The trader walked in on him, caught him holding the egg. There was a long pause, and they stared at each other, Devan quaking at being found out. The punishment for trespassing was harsh in the Circle, as you can imagine. But then the dwarf said, ‘Can you keep a secret, lad?’” Trevelyan laughed at that. “‘That’s a dragon egg, there.’ The first thing Devan did was tell the rest of us. And then hatched a plan to steal it in the night, consequences be damned.”

 

“Maker’s breath,” Cassandra put in, shaking her head. Lavellan agreed with the sentiment, if not the deity. Stealing from a Carta dwarf was something even she would think twice about.

 

“Yes,” Trevelyan agreed. “For all our scheming though, it ended up being simple – the trader drank with the some of the Templars late into the night, so Devan practically just strolled in and took it. Anticlimactic, really.” She chuckled, running a hand through her bangs, her auburn hair the color of the setting sun in the firelight. “The trader left the next afternoon. We almost died under the anticipation of being found out and lashed, but he never said anything about his missing egg.”

 

“The dwarf allowed a dragon egg to be stolen from under his nose?” Lavellan asked incredulously, frowning in disbelief. “You’re lying, shem.”

 

Trevelyan raised a brow, looking over at Lavellan in amusement at her outburst though she didn’t comment on it. “Yes, in retrospect it seems very odd, but to a group of precocious children, we thought we’d quite cleverly gotten away with the steal of a lifetime.” Trevelyan shook her head for dramatic effect, sighing. “We were wrong, of course.”

 

Varric was grinning widely, leaning with his elbows on his knees, eyes twinkling. “So what was it really? A painted rock?”

 

“If only,” Trevelyan said, pausing for no other reason than to draw out suspense. “It was a giant spider egg. I imagine he'd been waiting some time for a mark to unburden it on.”

Varric almost choked on his laughter. Cassandra’s mouth hung open for a moment, then she too started laughing. Lavellan, who had disliked spiders (not feared, because that would be ridiculous), did not think it was as funny.

 

Trevelyan frowned in mock petulance, crossing her arms. “Yes, it’s funny now, but it wound up hatching and hiding itself in the nooks and crannies of the tower. It was a real menace, for a time.” A smile broke across her face. “Maker, I think I still have scars from the punishment for that stunt. Well deserved, though.”

 

Lavellan grit her teeth at that. Children were a gift to the clan; striking a child was an act of cowardice and was never deserved. Templar shems were quickly falling in her esteem, not that they’d started out favorably. The very idea of them doing such a thing to Trevelyan – to anyone – filled Lavellan’s mouth with a bitter taste. Levellan stood, sheathing her sword.

 

“You’re leaving?” Cassandra asked, surprise ringing in her tone. Varric was still laughing lightly, wiping his eyes, and Trevelyan glanced up at her questioningly.

 

“It’s my turn for guard duty,” Lavellan replied stiffly. She could tell the others were unsatisfied with her answer, but Lavellan didn’t care, turning on her heel and brusquely walking away.

 

***

 

The night was clear, the moon a white rose in the sky, the stars a shimmering around it. It was peaceful, in the way that only a lonely night could be. Rejuvenating.

 

Mid-way through her shift, her ears picked up the distinct sound of crunching snow – steps coming from camp. She inclined her head and saw Trevelyan making her way towards the edge of camp, seating herself on a large rock a respectful distance from Lavellan.

 

A long silence bloomed between them. Lavellan tried to ignore the intruder, but the mood of the night had shifted, added an undernote of tension.

 

“Why are you here, shem?” Lavellan asked gruffly.

 

“I couldn’t sleep. Despite Varric’s charming lullaby.” Trevelyan tilted her head towards the tent she and the dwarf shared. Even from where they were, a faint droning snore could be heard (how such a small person could create such a large sound, Lavellan didn’t know). Trevelyan’s gaze found hers. “I could take over watch duty, if you want. Let you catch up on your beauty sleep.”

 

Lavellan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need ‘beauty sleep.’” What kind of shemlen nonsense was that?

 

“No, I suppose you don’t.” Trevelyan’s lips curled into a soft whisper of a smile. She glanced back up at the sky, the wan glow of the moon washing her features in a pale silver light, the line of her jaw accentuated by shadows. It made her seem cold somehow, as if she were a reflection on the other side of a sheet of ice. “The offer still stands, if you’d like to get some regular sleep.”

 

Lavellan realized she’d been staring and forced her eyes away, scanning the perimeter. There was nothing but shadows. The stillness did not surprise her; they had only just descended from the Frostbacks, occupying the odd space between mountain and valley. Most life in the area (creature or human) would have ventured farther inland, to more hospitable terrain.

 

“It’s peaceful, in the darkness, under the stars,” Trevelyan remarked. Lavellan steeled herself for another of the shem’s annoying quips or looks, but neither came. “It was such a shock, those first few nights after the Circle.”

 

“They didn’t let you outside?” Lavellan asked dubiously, then bit her lip. She shouldn’t encourage the shem to chatter any more than she already had. But the notion seemed inconceivable to Lavellan, who’d spent her entire life in the forests and fields.

 

“No, it’s not that. You could get permission to visit family, though the Templars had been a lot stricter in recent years, for good reason. It’s just…” Trevelyan sighed, looking down at the ground. “Well, I haven’t been home in years.” She sounded wistful, but not particularly heartbroken. “Leaving the Circle was the first time I’d set foot outside the tower in quite a while.” Seeming to realize the conversation had taken a melancholy turn, she added, “So after all the rumors we’d heard about what was happening in Thedas, the peacefulness of some nights was a surprise.”

 

Lavellan thought staying in one place so long, disconnected from the elements – not to mention under constant supervision – sounded horrifying. Regardless of what Trevelyan said before, Lavellan was convinced the shemlen mages had been prisoners. Once again, Lavellan wondered why shemlen had turned against themselves, when they already had made enemies of the other races. She supposed shemlen bloodthirst was never quenched.

 

They both lost themselves in their own thoughts for a time. Trevelyan stared up at the stars as if searching for something (constellations, Lavellan gathered as she saw the shem’s light brown eyes trace along familiar patterns). Lavellan tried to keep her attention trained on their surroundings, though it was harder to focus now with company (it shouldn’t matter, Lavellan knew it shouldn’t matter). Her eyes kept trailing back to the quiet mage.

 

Finally, Lavellan cleared her throat, giving voice to a question that had taken root in her mind. “Shem, the dragon.”

 

Trevelyan pulled herself out of her musings, glancing at Lavellan with a raised brow and an amused smile. “It’s generous of you to call it that.”

 

Lavellan ignored her. “It wasn’t meant as a pet.” She didn’t frame it as a question because she was fairly certain of the answer, of the meaning of the haunted look that had flashed through Trevelyan's eyes earlier. It was a look she'd seen before, though never on a shem.

 

Trevelyan’s smile vanished, and her face, her expression, her whole being seemed to sharpen. She met Lavellan’s probing gaze, slowly releasing a breath, and was silent for a long moment.

 

Lavellan waited, and watching the shem struggle to gather herself, her chest felt almost painfully tight.

 

“We…” Trevelyan sighed, bringing her hands up to rub her temples. “We were young, and foolish, and we resented things meant for our own good. That's all.”

 

Trevelyan stared down at her hands lying in her lap. Lavellan could almost see her closing herself off, retreating inward. It seemed unlike the shem – but then again, Lavellan barely knew her (and didn’t want to – she _didn’t_ ). If the shem wanted privacy, fine. Lavellan preferred the quiet.

 

Trevelyan only stayed a moment longer after that. Lavellan resumed surveying the area, and when she glanced back over out of the corner of her eye, the mage was gone. Lavellan shivered in the chill night air, looking up at the stars. They shone coldly, irritatingly refusing to offer the same tranquility as they had before.

 

* * *

 

The party made it almost three quarters of the way to the Hinterlands before Lavellan got to draw her sword in a real fight.  It was high time, in Lavellan's opinion.

 

They had found their way to a well-traversed path, and were starting to run into the occasional traveler. All of them were restless, wide-eyed people, the kind who were carrying their entire lives on their backs in weathered packs. Desperate, in other words. And where there was desperation, there were troublemakers to take advantage.

 

Lavellan noticed them first: shifty-eyed shems armed with blades and bows, taking up a position on a hill that overlooked the path. A vantage point for scoping out unsuspecting passersby.

 

The party gathered round in a wooded area directly south of the shems, readying their weapons.

 

“Bandits,” Cassandra muttered, glowering at them. “Perhaps it would be best to engage them from a distance, until we can gauge their number.”

 

Lavellan shook her head. “They’ll run.” She unsheathed her sword with a small, wild smile. Her heart began thumping a staccato war beat. Mythal, she was past ready for this. “We need to charge.” And with that, she abandoned the safety of the copse of trees, descending on the bandits at a sprint.

 

“Maker,” Lavellan could hear Trevelyan swear behind her. A shimmering aura wrapped around her – the shem must’ve cast a barrier spell.

 

Cassandra bellowed a war cry and followed after Lavellan, neatly deflecting an incoming arrow and not even breaking her stride.

 

The bandits were not especially strong, and against the five Inquisition fighters were clearly outmatched. They were inexperienced warriors, probably only taking up arms because they’d stumbled past the opportunity to leverage the misfortune of others. A male shem swung his sword with two hands as if it were a great ax, the blade lodging solidly into the earth when Lavellan sidestepped the arcing blow. She quickly stabbed him through the chest, twisting her blade and yanking it free.

 

The one advantage the bandits had was the high ground, and infuriatingly enough, they knew how to use it. Even when they’d culled their numbers, there were at least two archers stationed behind an overturned wagon, taking shots that pushed the Inquisition back. Ideally, they would flank the bandits, pressuring them from all sides. But with only two warriors, the maneuver would be unlikely to work. So Lavellan did the next best thing.

 

She charged.

 

Coming up the hill, her shield took the brunt of the damage, looking like a quillback by the time she got to the top. She took out the first archer easy enough, as the shem had been too slow to move to a more defensible spot. The other was smarter, and Lavellan learned that lesson via an arrow embedding itself into her shoulder. Her armor blunted the impact, but it still broke through skin and tore into muscle. She grit her teeth, willing her way past the pain, scanning the hilltop. She brought her shield up in time to deflect a second arrow, shot from an archer who ducked behind the trunk of a nearby tree.

 

A shout rang out, and Cassandra came thundering over the crest of the hill, sword raised high. The second archer, not having time to knock and arrow, lashed out with a fist, clipping the Seeker in the face. The blow didn’t even cause the Seeker to waver, and he still fell beneath her blade.

 

“Are you alright?” Cassandra asked curtly, eyes searching first Lavellan and then the terrain around them. Lavellan guessed the warrior wasn’t happy with Lavellan’s…head-first approach.

 

“Fine,” Lavellan answered shortly. She wrapped a hand around the arrow in her shoulder and pulled gently but firmly. A jolt of fiery pain shot down her arm, but the arrow gave way, and she tossed it on the ground.

 

“Maker’s fucking breath,” a lilting, breathless voice called out. Trevelyan jogged over to them, leaning on her staff as she caught her breath. A light sheen of sweat covered her brow, causing her bangs to stick to her skin. She looked disheveled and…and that was it, Lavellan thought, curtailing any other descriptors that might’ve come to mind. “That was…hmm…an experience.” She put a hand on her hip, regarding the pair of warriors with an accusing stare. “You’re both incredibly reckless.” She shook her head, adding under her breath, “It’s damningly attractive.”

 

Cassandra snorted at that, and Lavellan gave a dismissive _hmph_ , looking away, trying to will away the heat on her cheeks. Movement caught the corner of Lavellan's eye, and her whole body tensed. A third archer, having taken refuge behind the tipped wagon once more, had her bow drawn and arrow aimed squarely at them. As Lavellan made eye contact with the woman, she let the arrow fly.

 

Lavellan assessed the arrow’s path in a heartbeat and put out her shield to guard against it. She needn’t have bothered. Trevelyan conjured a barrier at the same instant, and the arrow bounced off it uselessly.

 

Both Lavellan and Cassandra were moving in unison towards the attacker. They made it a few paces before a distinctive twang sounded, and a second later a crossbow bolt gruesomely poked through the archer’s chest. She fell lifelessly to the ground, revealing Varric.

 

“I see we’re having fun,” the dwarf said with a grin, gaze sweeping the three of them.

 

“Is that what this is?” Solas, who came up behind him, asked wryly.

 

Lavellan rolled her eyes, turning and descending the hill. She didn’t have the patience to endure their banter, with a sore and bleeding shoulder. She found a log near the base of the hill and sat down, inspecting her wound. It wasn’t severe, but having glanced muscle, it would inhibit her freedom of movement as it healed. Lavellan scowled. Stupid archer, with his lucky shot. Though he got what he deserved in the end.

 

“You’re hurt.”

 

Lavellan let out a long breath, glancing up. Of course Trevelyan would dog her every step she took, had Lavellan really expected – hoped – otherwise? The shem was clutching her staff, eyes glued to Lavellan’s shoulder.

 

She stepped closer, biting her lip as her eyes swept over the wound. “A shallow wound, though. Easy enough to patch up.” As she spoke, magic began to swirl around her hands, a lighter and calmer green than that of Lavellan’s mark.

 

“What are you doing?” Lavellan half-heartedly snarled, glaring warily at the light-green aura of magic encircling Trevelyan’s hands.

 

Trevelyan rolled her eyes at the question, halting her movements and holding up her hands. “Healing you. Is that alright?” She arched a brow, awaiting the elf’s response and clearly nonplussed at Lavellan’s hostility.

 

Lavellan took a step back, wincing at the throbbing ache from her shoulder. It hurt, but it was nothing she hadn’t lived with before. “No. Keep your shemlen hands to yourself, or find someone else to rub them over. Leave me be.” She tried to inject as much animosity into her tone as possible, but her voice was thready from where it snaked out behind her gritted teeth.

 

Trevelyan let out a small, strangled sigh. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Have it your way. Just…” Her eyes opened and darted to the wound, and she made a vague motion with her hand. “Drink a potion, at least?” Her gaze met Lavellan’s, and she added, “Please.”

 

The shem seemed sincere, her expression tight and pulled as if she were the one with the bleeding shoulder. It didn’t make sense to Lavellan – why would a shemlen care anything about an elf’s pain? Shemlen barely cared about each other. And more often than not, liked to be the cause of pain.

 

Lavellan hesitated for a long moment. She wanted to reject the shem aid on principle, to spit on the very idea of taking any shemlen help. But she also wanted to move her arm without pain, to be able to swing her sword without reopening the damn wound. It came down to principles versus utility. She could lose a fight of wills here and now or lose a physical fight in the future when an enemy took advantage of her weakness.

 

“Give me some of your slog, shem,” she growled at last with a tight frown. It felt like giving in, though Lavellan knew she hadn’t really had much of an option.

 

She watched Trevelyan sigh in relief. The mage gave her a reassured little half-smile, which Lavellan wanted to roll her eyes at but couldn’t quite bring herself to. Trevelyan reached into the traveling pack attached to her belt and fished out a vial. She uncorked it and handed it to Lavellan.

 

“With a flesh wound like this, you can dab a little bit directly onto the injury. It reduces the pain faster than drinking it, but you do need to drink it to get the full healing effect,” Trevelyan instructed as Lavellan inspected the potion.

 

Lavellan raised the potion to her lips, gulping it down in one go. It was a thick liquid, but the unappealing flavor Lavellan had been expecting she did not find.

 

“It tastes…sweet.” Lavellan handed the empty vial back to the shem, skimming her tongue along her lips. It was pleasant, not that she’d ever utter that out loud.

 

Trevelyan put the vial in her pack, a rosy blush dusting her cheeks, not meeting Lavellan's eyes. “Ah, I put honey in mine.” She grinned, rubbing the nape of her neck in embarrassment. “To make them easier to go down. They’re usually slightly bitter.”

 

It was such a mundane, frivolous idiosyncrasy, and yet still somehow…endearing, almost. Or at least, it would be, if it were done by anyone other than the shem. As it was, it was childish and fanciful, Lavellan decided, though in watching Trevelyan’s blush slowly recede she had to remind herself of the fact a time or two.

 

At that moment, the rest of the party rejoined them. Cassandra, whose nose had bled profusely when she’d been punched in the face, had a bright crimson streak of drying blood down her chin. Trevelyan tutted, coming to stand in front of the Seeker and tilting the warrior’s face in her hands, assessing the injury. Cassandra seemed self-conscious at the attention, downplaying its severity while steadfastly staring past Trevelyan’s shoulder.

 

Lavellan rolled her eyes as she watched the shem fawn over the other warrior. Even if the Seeker’s nose was broken – which it wasn’t, as the Seeker herself professed – such a thing would barely be worth pausing over.

 

Trevelyan’s hands shone with magic once more as she healed the not-broken nose. She ran her thumb over Cassandra’s chin, attempting with minor results to wipe some of the blood from there. She then stepped back, putting her hands on her hips. “There, perfect as before.”

 

Cassandra’s nostrils twitched, and she brought a hand up to the bridge of her nose to test its tenderness, prodding it with none-too-gentle fingers and humming in satisfaction. “That was unnecessary, but appreciated. Thank you, Trevelyan.”

 

“Of course, Lady Cassandra. Should you need me for anything else…” Trevelyan trailed off, letting her words sink in and sending the Seeker a wink. “You know where to find me.”

 

A small noise of what might've been disgust or choked embarrassment clawed its way from the Seeker's throat. "I did not need you even for this," she pointed out, ears tinging red. It was true, Lavellan thought - time would've done the job just as well.

 

"No," Trevelyan agreed, a wicked smirk twisting her lips. "But it's always more fun with a partner."

 

Varric, ever the enabler, started laughing boisterously. Cassandra looked aghast, struck mute while a flush marched across her face. Solas glanced away, though Lavellan caught him smiling ever so slightly.

 

"We are wasting time," Lavellan announced, irritation lacing her voice. She felt unduly frustrated at the whole situation. Stupid shems.

 

"Indeed," Cassandra said, relieved at the distraction. "We should continue on."

 

And, thankfully, they did, though Lavellan had to suffer through Varric's never-ending sniggering.

 

* * *

 

They made it to the Hinterlands two days later. After speaking with a dwarven Inquisition scout named Harding, they ventured into the valley where the Chantry shem was waiting while tending to weary travelers. Luckily, in Lavellan's opinion, they encountered both rogue mages and rogue Templars attacking the refugee camp.

 

These enemies were actually a challenge, which was refreshing. The mages were not well-versed in battle but there were a number of them, and Lavellan was unused to defending against magic. The Templars were encased head to toe in impressive armor and had experience, but fought as if crazed. By the end of the skirmish, Lavellan's heart was racing, adrenaline coursing through her blood. This was the best fight she'd had since joining the Inquisition, save that with the Pride demon.

 

Mother Giselle greeted them graciously, considering the rest of her Chantry flock viewed Lavellan and the burgeoning Inquisition as a fanatical thorn in their side. She advised Lavellan to try to appeal to more Chantry shems at Val Royeaux and sow dissent in their ranks, which seemed a task the Spymaster would be better suited for. If Lavellan truly had to go to Val Royeaux, she would knock heads together, not play nice. But she kept that thought to herself.

 

Mother Giselle agreed to travel to Haven to work with the Inquisition, but only after she saw the refugees were well taken care of. Lavellan nodded, and sensing the end of the conversation, Trevelyan wormed her way in, introducing herself. The Chantry shem's brows raised when she learned the mage was a healer, and when Trevelyan explained she was there to help, Mother Giselle smiled widely.

 

Lavellan hung back while the two spoke, knowing her work here was done but staying anyway. When the Chantry shem led Trevelyan over to the healer's clearing, Lavellan hesitated, then trailed after, though she wasn't sure why. Trevelyan was shown the area, acquainted with another mage, and then Mother Giselle, with a glance back at a fidgeting Lavellan, took her leave.

 

From where the rest of the party was waiting, Cassandra shook her head. "We should press forward, and make use of the afternoon while we can," she said with a small frown, eyeing the surrounding hills. "There is no reason to linger here when there is so much to do."

 

“Aw, leave them alone, Seeker,” Varric said, watching the two with a crooked grin. “Let them have their _sweet goodbye_.” He placed a special emphasis on the last words, shooting the warrior a look.

 

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, hands coming to rest on her hips. Then, seeming to catch his insinuation, her brows jumped up. “Surely you don’t think…” She trailed off, turning and regarding the pair with intense scrutiny. “I cannot see it.”

 

Varric snorted, muttering something akin to _No surprise there_. “Just wait. I’d bet my next book on those two becoming…involved.”

 

Surprisingly, that seemed to capture Cassandra’s interest. “Fine. I accept your bet.”

 

“W-what? Really?” Varric spluttered, incredulous. Of all the reactions he’d expected, this had not been one of them. He’d thought the Seeker would make one of her signature disgusted noises and denounce romance as frivolous. This was much more interesting.

 

Cassandra clenched her jaw, examining him suspiciously. “Unless you wish to back out?” she challenged.

 

On Varric’s odd and twisted honor, he did _not_ renege on his word, bets or otherwise. He smirked up at the Seeker. “Oh, it’s on,” he said, offering her his hand. “And when I win, you owe me a sovereign.” He might be pushing his luck, but a sovereign for a book seemed fair enough.

 

Cassandra shook his hand firmly, grip strong enough Varric thought his fingers might break. “Deal,” she agreed roughly, jaw set in determination and the faintest trace of a smile on her lips.

 

 _Interesting,_ Varric thought, before turning his attention to the Herald and her favorite mage.

 

***

 

“Mother Giselle and I will return to Haven after we’ve done all we can for the wounded,” Trevelyan told Lavellan, surveying all the people who lay on groaning on blankets and the ground. She seemed lost in thought, in mental preparations, her fingers drumming an idle beat on her staff as she took stock of her surroundings. Lavellan had half her attention at best, and it was a peculiar feeling considering she usually had all of it.

 

Lavellan frowned as she watched Trevelyan. “You should make the returning journey with us, shem.” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended. When the mage turned to her, brows raised in surprise, Lavellan added defensively, “You struggle to defend yourself, you cannot possibly think you can protect a shem that can’t even fight. You’d both die before nightfall.” She didn’t care, Lavellan told herself. It would just be inconvenient, and all the Inquisition’s advising shems would probably never let her hear the end of it.

 

Trevelyan shot her a lopsided smile, and Lavellan crossed her arms in response, as if to ward against it. “As sweet as it is of you to worry, we’ll be alright. There’s soldiers here now. And if you clear out the rogue mages and bandits in the area –”

 

“And the rogue Templars,” Lavellan cut in. At least they would be a challenge. And she would enjoy knocking Templars about.

 

Trevelyan hesitated and Lavellan could tell the shem was thrown off-balance by the remark. Why, Lavellan couldn’t fathom. The Templars were just as much a threat (more, in her opinion) as the mages, and considering they were attacking anyone who crossed their path, they needed to be dealt with.

 

“Yes, of course,” Trevelyan said after a moment. She shook her head, auburn ponytail bobbing. “Once the local troublemakers are gone, travel will be a breeze.” Her honey-colored eyes found Lavellan’s icy blue ones. “Nothing to worry over.”

 

Lavellan grunted. “I am _not_ worried, shem,” she insisted with a slight growl. She _wasn’t_.

 

“Good. Besides, you have the bloodier job,” Trevelyan pointed out, tone turning a touch more somber though her expression stayed cheerful (her default, Lavellan was learning, as annoying as that was). She glanced away. “If anything, I should be worried for you.”

 

The fact that Lavellan didn’t immediately take that comment as an insult to her combat skills disturbed her. She straightened, squaring her shoulders. “No member of Clan Lavellan is so weak as to fall to anything these Hinterlands have to offer – shemlen or demons, or anything else,” Lavellan said, pride edging her words. “Worry over the others, that they can keep up with me.” They were far more deserving of worry.

 

Trevelyan chuckled at that, reassured, a pretty smile blooming across her face. “Right.” Her eyes shone in amusement, and once again her gaze swept over the injured around them. “Well then, Lady Herald. Until we meet again, I suppose.”

 

“Don’t die, shem.” The sentence was out of her mouth before Lavellan could think twice about uttering it. Lavellan frowned in horror, tearing her eyes away from the stupid shem in front of her. Mythal’s mercy, that sounded like such a… _soft_ thing to say.

 

“I wouldn’t dare give anyone else the pleasure,” she heard Trevelyan say. The mage sounded delighted. Lavellan gritted her teeth at that, but her words did make Lavellan feel somewhat better (maybe it wasn’t so soft a sentiment after all).

 

She breathed out a _Hmph_ and turned on her heel, striding over to the rest of the party. Cassandra and Varric had been watching her, though as soon as she looked to them their eyes stumbled away. Solas appeared to be helping one of the Inquisition scouts to mix a potion, his mouth moving incessantly as he no doubt went over the instructions in minute detail.

 

“Let’s move out,” Lavellan said by way of greeting, not bothering to stop and wait, walking back towards the way they’d first come.

 

She could hear the scramble of footsteps behind her as her companions followed after her. Cassandra, with long strides, caught up quickly. Varric had to jog, and Lavellan could make out some choice words muttered under his breath. Solas, if was coming (she didn’t bother to check) was trailing somewhere behind.

 

“Did you…have a good talk?” Varric asked slyly. Lavellan didn’t turn to look at him, but she knew he was grinning that stupid shit-eating grin of his.

 

Lavellan scowled, feeling the tips of her ears burn with a bright blush (she hoped that reaction wasn’t noticeable, but the dwarf possessed the eyes of a hawk). She chose to ignore his comment, focusing on weaving her way out of the small shemlen settlement.

 

Luckily, Cassandra spoke up before Varric could again. “We should speak with Horsemaster Dennet. If we could secure mounts, it would make traversing the Hinterlands far easier.” Lavellan appreciated the Seeker’s practicality and focus as much as the conversational diversion.

 

“Fine, sh- Seeker,” Lavellan corrected quickly, nodding at the course of action. She didn’t have much experience with mounts – halla were as close as she’d gotten, and though it wasn’t completely unheard of to occasionally ride the creatures, none in her clan had ever done so. Lavellan felt apprehensive about the idea of a mount, of heaving herself up on some hulking shem horse only to have it throw her off. But if it got their job done faster, it was the lesser of two evils.

 

Lavellan didn’t look back, not once. But, annoyingly, it was not for lack of wanting to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Haven. Lavellan, against her better judgement, bring herbs to the apothecary - herbs for the Inquisition, not for the stupid shem mage.  
> -  
> I'm such a SLOW writer, I'm so sorry. I've been working on this, I promise. This was meant to be a longer chapter, but since apparently it takes me a literal age to write anything, I cut it in half. So enjoy what's probably the gayest chapter yet.

* * *

 

Lavellan was grateful to be back in Haven - though she would never admit the fact to anyone, even under pain of death. It had been refreshing to actually _do_ something useful - something including swinging a sword - but, as with anything involving shemlen, events in the Hinterlands had been fraught with politics. Who to save, who to cut down, who to help and how, who to discipline but not too severely, and worst of all, the unending talking… Those were too many questions for Lavellan’s taste. Hunt down those who hurt, and spare the rest: that was justice in her eyes.

 

For the most part, however, the Inquisition had seemed happy with her results. She’d gotten the support of the Chantry shem, as well as convinced the shem horsemaster to provide them with horses. Not to mention she’d dispersed both the rebel mages and Templars in the region. While everyone around Lavellan seemed skeptical of her aggressive nature and her methods, no one could argue with their outcome. Lavellan was nothing if not a force to be reckoned with.

 

That last fact echoed in her mind (whether as a mantra or an admonishment, she couldn’t tell) as Lavellan loitered outside Haven’s apothecary. She had a wrapped bundle of dried and slightly crumpled herbs tucked under her arm. Lavellan felt foolish and awkward standing there, which only served to make her irritated with herself. It wasn’t like she was bringing the idiot shem flowers (she flushed - indignantly - at the very thought) - she wasn’t bringing _Trevelyan_ anything. Lavellan was bringing the _Inquisition_ medicinal herbs, for the good of herself as well as the rest of the troops. (That rationale hadn’t stopped her from surreptitiously collecting the herbs when she was absolutely sure her companions hadn’t been looking. She had a feeling Varric in particular would’ve pestered her incessantly had he found out what she’d been doing.)

 

Lavellan let out a sharp breath through her nose, resolving she’d wasted enough time and stepping forward. If her stomach twisted like a leaf in high winds, it meant nothing. The hut’s door creaked as she pushed it open, a welcoming earthy smell wafting to her nose as she stepped inside.

 

Adan, seated at a small desk near the door, looked up, the drawn lines of his face smoothing when he saw who was entering. “You’re back!” he said with the faintest upturn of his lips. “And-”

 

“In one piece!” Trevelyan chimed in from the other side of the hut, just as the healer uttered the same phrase. She was standing at a table littered with plants and other potion ingredients, pouring over a page of notes.

 

Adan frowned, shooting the mage a disgruntled look. “I told you not to do that. I am not-”

 

“Predictable,” Trevelyan finished for him with a cheeky grin. This was apparently a discussion they’d had before. “No, of course not.”

 

While Adan grumbled more or less under his breath, Trevelyan slid her gaze over to meet Lavellan’s own and mimicked the man's sour expression, moving her lips in silent grumbles. Lavellan kept her expression carefully nonchalant, but there was a small, traitorous part of her that didn’t mind the shem’s antics. (Didn’t mind - not _enjoyed_ , and certainly she hadn’t _missed_ Trevelyan and her teasing and ceaseless annoying comments.)

 

“So what can we do for you?” Adan asked curiously at last.

 

Lavellan hesitated, fidgeting with the bundle under her arm. She had nothing against the surly shem - which was saying something, given that he was a shemlen - but… she hadn’t anticipated on his being present. Which seemed absurd now - after all, this was essentially _his_ hut.

 

Mythal’s mercy, living with shems was turning her into an idiot. She could practically feel her ears flattening.

 

Adan cleared his throat, lightly but obviously to pull her out of her thoughts and prompt her to speak. Lavellan resisted her impulse to glare darkly at him.

 

“I...brought herbs,” she announced to the floor, refusing to look either shem in the eyes.

 

There was a beat of silence that Lavellan hadn’t been expecting, and she looked up. Trevelyan appeared surprised, her auburn brows arched, for once the mischievous glint in her eyes absent. Lavellan met her gaze challengingly, ready for whatever teasing comment would dance off the shem’s tongue, but none came. Odd, Lavellan thought.

 

“Maker knows we needed more herbs, what with the new recruits and increased scouting parties. We can certainly put them to good use,” Adan said, sounding as cheerful as Lavellan had ever heard him. “Right, Trevelyan?” he asked in his less-than-subtle way, noticing the mage had been quiet for a moment, which was a moment longer than she usually was.

 

Trevelyan cleared her throat, looking down at her notes. “Ah, right.” She glanced up, seeming to have collected herself, and gave Lavellan a small smile. “Bring them over here, if you would, Lady Herald.”

 

Lavellan crossed the room in a few strides, placing the bundle on the table next to the shem. Trevelyan unwrapped it, examining the herbs within. Upon inspection, they seemed rather pathetic to Lavellan’s eyes, dried and everything intertwined together in one clump of leaves. But Trevelyan made a hum of approval.

 

“There’s a little of everything in here,” Trevelyan murmured wonderingly, teasing apart a few of the plants. “Spindleweed, blood lotus, embrium…” She shook out a stalk with bluish white flowers, tracing the blooms with her fingertips. “Maker, crystal’s grace, too.”

 

“You said only elfroot grows here,” Lavellan pointed out, unable to mask the defensive note in her voice. She’d gathered all the herbs for practicalities’ sake - the Inquisition needed herbs for potions and tonics and gods knows what else shems could fashion from them, and she’d happened across them. That was all. Lavellan remembered dry seasons when her Clan hadn't been able to forage enough, and how it had cost them, how the Keeper had spent long days away from the rest of the Clan, searching for what she could. Lavellan knew how important herbs were.

 

Which failed to explain the flicker of satisfaction that snuck its way into Lavellan’s chest at Trevelyan’s reaction. No - Lavellan was merely happy to have her efforts recognized, that was all.

 

“I...yes, I did,” Trevelyan said, looking back up at Lavellan. She ran a hand through her hair, brushing back a few stray auburn locks that had come loose from her ponytail. “I didn’t expect…” she faltered, glancing away, and Lavellan thought she could just make out the hint of a blush tinting the shem’s cheeks. “Thank you, Lady Herald. This is very thoughtful of you.”

 

Was the shem...flustered? A sense of victory, or perhaps smugness, flared in Lavellan's chest at finally having the upper hand in one of their interactions, but frustratingly, it also threw her off-balance. She scoured her mind for a response, uttering the first that came to her.   

 

“Solas picked them,” Lavellan lied, though it sounded hollow and false even to her own ears. And idiotic. It was an utterly stupid thing to say, Lavellan berated herself, but she couldn’t take it back.

 

And yet, the lie seemed to be just the thing to snap Trevelyan back to her usual self.

 

“Did he?” Trevelyan asked, a sly little smile snaking its way across her lips, the glimmer quickly returning to her eyes. After a moment, she added, “Well then, tell Solas he’s a dear, and should there be a way I can return the favor, I would do so gladly.”

 

Lavellan scowled at that, her jaw clenching, and she looked away. She shouldn’t be annoyed by the easy way the suggestion rolled off the shem’s tongue. Lavellan should’ve just handed the herbs over to Adan and left. Or given them to one of Leliana’s scouts to deliver, and never come here at all.

 

Trevelyan’s lilting voice cut into her brooding thoughts. “You’re pouting,” the mage remarked. Lavellan glared at her. The shem grinned, though there was something just beneath her expression that seemed different, something that Lavellan couldn’t put her finger on.

 

Lavellan’s mind couldn’t help flashing back to the last time Trevelyan had (mistakingly) accused her of...pouting, and then gone on to call it cute. Lavellan flushed.

 

“You are a special kind of tiresome, shem,” she said, failing to inject any sort of venom into the statement and instead sounding exasperated. Which was still accurate.

 

Trevelyan chuckled, turning to the bundle of herbs and beginning to gently untangle them, leaving Lavellan to stare at her profile and the line of her jaw. “Ah, yes, one of my better qualities.”

 

Lavellan pulled her gaze back up to the shem’s eyes, though the shem wasn’t looking at her. “One of your better?” she scoffed, raising a brow.

 

Trevelyan glanced up at her with a small smirk, and Lavellan had a feeling she'd regret saying anything at all. “Oh, I assure you, Lady Herald,” she drawled in a low tone laced with innuendo. “I have _worse_ habits.”

 

Lavellan felt something hot twist deep in the pit of her stomach. Lavellan cleared her throat, which for whatever reason was dry as the summer plains. Her mind had gone suspiciously blank of any derisive rejoiners.

 

Luckily, she was spared of having to think of one when across the hut, Adan snorted. Lavellan jolted - she’d forgotten he was still there.

 

An annoyed frown replaced Trevelyan’s smirk, and she shot the man a glare. “None of which include eavesdropping, however,” she reproached, pointedly but in a neutral tone.

 

Adan snorted again, not looking up from his work at his desk. “Oh, I assure you, Lady Trevelyan,” he echoed her words somewhat monotonously, with none of Trevelyan’s flair. “I wish I hadn’t.”

 

Once again, Lavellan thought she saw the mage shem’s cheeks pinken in a blush.

 

Lavellan cleared her throat again, fidgeting from foot to foot. She’d stayed long enough - too long, after all, she’d only come to deliver herbs to the apothecary, for the good of the Inquisition (Lavellan couldn’t tell whether she believed the excuse more or less each time she reiterated it to herself). She moved towards the door.

 

“Thank you again, Lady Herald,” Trevelyan called out, sounding downcast, though Lavellan couldn’t be sure if that was because she was leaving or because of Adan’s remark (not that she cared either way, of course). “It was thoughtful, truly.”

 

Standing in the doorway, Lavellan turned, locking eyes with the mage. “Just...put them to good use, shem,” she replied as gruffly as she could.

 

“Of course,” Trevelyan said simply. She held Lavellan’s gaze for a long moment, until Lavellan abruptly turned and pushed open the door and stepped outside, letting it shut behind her with a satisfying _thump._

 

Lavellan sighed, her breath misting the chill winter air. With _that_ over, she had the sudden desire to fetch her sword and hit something, preferably repeatedly, until she felt...harder, like steel, like her usual self. Perhaps Cassandra would agree to spar with her, or she could pulverize one of the training dummies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Trev, she's not as smooth as she'd like to think she is. Alas, she gives it a shot anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training, and then a Chantry scene. Sorry guys it might be a little rougher than usual, I pushed myself to get it out as quick as I could. After the news this week... well, here's something not election related to distract yourself with. And, as always but never yet actually stated, much love to everyone!

* * *

 

While she waited for the advising shems to decide the Inquisition’s next move given the Chantry shem’s support, Lavellan had taken to training on the grounds outside Haven’s gate. She had laid claim to one of the training dummies, glowering at anyone who dared come near. That combined with her burgeoning reputation for aggressive hostility kept the shemlen recruits at bay.

 

But there was only so long Lavellan could strike at a target that couldn’t strike back. Cassandra occasionally filled the void and sparred with her, when she was not at the ambassador’s desk (“discussing the Inquisition’s strategy going forward,” apparently). The warrior shem fought fiercely, doggedly matching Lavellan blow for blow, and Lavellan appreciated her no-holds-barred approach. Lavellan was still slightly wary of the woman, however - her stubborn nature held true not just in her swordplay but her personality, which at times led them to clash with words as well as weapons. Since they both had rather short tempers, their arguments usually devolved into one of them storming away.

 

It was for that reason that Lavellan sought out a new sparring partner. There was a rather short list of acceptable substitutes - Lavellan was not about to stoop to training with a wet-behind-the-ears shemlen recruit, as satisfying as it would be to beat one down.

 

Lavellan was eyeing the training grounds for such a partner when Trevelyan came by, led by an agitated soldier. Lavellan rolled her eyes. One of the idiot recruits had had the bright idea to try to block his partner’s powerful vertical strike, rather than sidestep. The flat of his own blade, pushed back by the impact of the blow, had hit him in the face. His jaw was covered in blood, but whether that was more from a bloody nose or a gash was unknown. The shem wouldn’t take his hands off his face, howling all the while. And while Cullen had dismissed the rest of the trainees, many lingered only to stare and whisper.

 

 _Shemlen_ , Lavellan thought, wrinkling her nose.

 

Trevelyan, preoccupied, hadn’t noticed her, so Lavellan watched covertly. The mage was greeted by the Commander, who said a few short words, running a hand through his hair with an odd expression on his face. Lavellan narrowed her eyes, pausing in her annihilation of the training dummy.

 

Trevelyan bent next to the injured recruit, whose unholy racket wavered but continued on. The mage murmured something to him, and he lowered his hands slowly. Trevelyan gently placed her hands as near the wound as she could without causing undue pain. A pale green aura enveloped her fingertips, and for a moment nothing appeared to happen. Heads in the gathered crowd craned for a better view, some watching in awe, some in blatant distaste. But then the recruit’s screams grew quieter, more subdued, and finally stopped altogether. Lavellan couldn’t quite see, as blood still smeared his face crimson, but it seemed like the cut on his face had mended, though not disappeared completely.

 

Trevelyan took a potion from the satchel at her waist. She asked him something, and for a moment the man hesitated, then shook his head. When the he reached for the potion, his hands shaking, Trevelyan said something to him with a small smile, putting a hand on his shoulder briefly before standing. She handed it to Cullen, gesturing to the recruit and giving instructions for its use. The Commander nodded, taking the vial carefully. Trevelyan moved to leave, but he spoke again.

 

Lavellan rolled her eyes. What exactly could be confusing about a potion? Dense shem.

 

When Trevelyan turned to leave for the second time, a tight smile on her lips, her gaze scanned the area and landed on Lavellan. The shem’s smile gave way to one bright and true, her honey-colored eyes lighting up, and she made her way over to where Lavellan stood. Cullen eyes trailed after her, a peculiarly lost expression fleeting across his face. Seeing it, Lavellan came to a decision - the shemlen commander would be her new sparring partner. After all, if he had time to gawk, he had time to parry Lavellan’s blade.

 

“I thought I might find you here, Lady Herald,” Trevelyan said by way of greeting, standing next to the training dummy. The shem’s gaze swept Lavellan up and down, which provoked an odd little flutter in Lavellan’s chest.

 

Lavellan wiped some of the sweat from her brow with a small frown. “Hmph,” she responded, since she couldn’t think of any actual words to say. Because she was...tired.

 

“Is he putting up a good fight, at least?” Trevelyan asked, placing an arm around the dummy and giving it a consoling pat.

 

Lavellan let out a huff. “More than any of these shemlen could.” That much was certain. At least it didn’t knock itself in the face and then blubber about it.

 

Trevelyan arched a brow. “Perhaps the Inquisition should outfit them with armor and send them into the Hinterlands, then,” she said, attempting dryness but humor leaking through her tone. She glanced around at the crowd of recruits training in the clearing (some of which were glancing back at the two of them surreptitiously, Lavellan noted, and she glowered). “There are a few former Templars here. Surely one of them could be a match for you?” Her eyes hovered on Cullen for a moment before moving on, and _yes_ , Lavellan was definitely going to challenge him.

 

“I wouldn’t count on it, shem,” Lavellan replied haughtily. “A jailer is not much of a warrior. As the rebels in the Hinterlands have shown.”

 

Trevelyan’s smile fell away at the remark. She looked at Lavellan, and while there wasn’t anger or sharpness or exasperation in her eyes, there was something lurking in them that Lavellan couldn’t identify. "A jailer," she repeated quietly, more to herself than to Lavellan, looking away.

 

Lavellan studied the shem. "That's what the Templars are," she insisted, though her tone lacked any bite to it.

 

Trevelyan glanced back to meet the elf's eyes. "You wouldn't be the first to think so," she said, a tad breezily, shaking her head. "Evelyn, my sister, used to call them the same." Trevelyan's voice had a rough edge to it, and - _sadness,_ Lavellan realized, _that’s what it was._ By the time the mage spoke again, however, her tone was neutral once more. "You and she would’ve gotten along."

 

Lavellan didn’t miss Trevelyan’s use of past-tense, but she didn’t comment on it. “Then perhaps not all shem are hopeless.” The words felt heavy rolling off her tongue.

 

“Hm.” Trevelyan watched her with a somewhat empty, faraway gaze, and Lavellan fidgeted beneath it despite her attempts to the contrary. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword, which now felt useless and weighty in her hand. “No, if there was one word that definitely described Evelyn, it was ‘hopeless.’ Hopelessly kind, hopelessly stubborn, hopelessly brave...” A ghost of a smile haunted the shem’s pink lips, and Lavellan felt something in her chest constrict at seeing it.

 

“Trevelyan…” Lavellan was quickly coming to dislike the familiarity of being at a loss for words. She cleared her throat, sheathing her sword and crossing her arms. She said gruffly, unsure if she was admonishing or attempting to comfort the mage, “None of those things are hopeless, shem.”

 

By all the gods’ mercy, she was going soft.

 

Trevelyan blinked, her honey-eyed gaze focusing. She seemed surprised, her brows raising, and it took her a moment to reply. “No.” She let out a breath, straightening, gathering herself. “But I’ve taken up enough of your time, Lady Herald.” She patted the training dummy on its shoulder. “I believe he’s had adequate time to recover.” She flashed a smile at Lavellan.

 

Lavellan shook her head, the shem’s ability to dismiss and conceal her emotions baffling her. “Fine,” she huffed. “Do what you wish.” Lavellan didn’t care. At all.

 

Trevelyan’s smile quirked into a smirk. “What I wish?” Her eyes flicked down to Lavellan’s lips. “That’s a dangerous proposition.”

 

The look sparked a lightning storm lancing through Lavellan's veins, and it was not...a completely unpleasant feeling. She clenched her jaw, trying to work the words from where they were stuck in her throat. “...You are a far cry from dangerous, shem.”

 

Trevelyan’s gaze searched Lavellan’s face, and her smirk tapered into a small, bright grin. “Ever the flatterer, Lady Herald,” she teased. 

 

Before Lavellan could retort (with something scathing, of course), a shout rang out. Looking over Trevelyan’s shoulder, Lavellan spotted a soldier jogging into the clearing, making a beeline for the Commander. He gestured back to Haven, words pouring quickly from his lips though Lavellan was not close enough to make them out. Cullen’s brows furrowed, and he muttered something crossly, then moved towards the gate.

 

“That doesn’t bode well,” Trevelyan murmured, having turned to watch the scene play out. Lavellan silently agreed.

 

“Shem!” she called out, crossing over to the shemlen that had brought the message. His eyes widened as she neared, automatically darting down to her marked hand. Lavellan glared at him. “What’s happened?”

 

“T-there’s a crowd, in front of the Chantry,” he explained hurriedly, wilting under Lavellan’s stare.

 

Lavellan snorted. Had he really run to Cullen to dispel a crowd? “What else, shem?” she ground out.

 

“It’s the m-mages and Templars,” he stammered out. “They’re at each other’s throats.”

 

Lavellan growled. After everything she’d done in the Hinterlands, to have mage-Templar tensions erupt here, among the Inquisition’s own people, was like being spit on. Lavellan glanced over her shoulder to gauge Trevelyan’s reaction, but the shem was nowhere to be found.

 

Lavellan gritted her teeth, a spark of frustration flaring in her chest. She stalked to Haven’s gate, resolving at the very least to knock some sense into these shemlen’s heads.

 

True to his word, there was a loosely gathered mob of people outside the Chantry’s doors. On the outer edges were the Chantry clerics themselves, tittering uselessly among themselves. Lavellan pushed past them, glowering.

 

At the center was only a handful of mages and Templars, each group standing a slight distance apart but glaring daggers at each other. Lavellan scanned the gathered on-lookers for Trevelyan and spied the mage’s auburn ponytail near the front.

 

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!” a Templar accused, stony-faced, pushing forward to stand a scant few feet away from the small crowd of gathered mages.

 

The mage who took it upon himself to argue back was not so stoic. A fleeting flash of fear crossed his face as the Templar stepped closer, the same expression as that of a kicked dog at his master’s heel. But then he straightened, his knuckles whitening around his staff and fear molding to anger (or at least an approximation of it). “Lies!” he snarled, squaring his shoulders and glaring at the Templar.

 

Trevelyan moved swiftly, silently, going to the mage’s side and putting a hand on his elbow. She spoke a quiet word to him, the sound of which was swallowed by the murmuring of the crowd, but Lavellan could read it off the shem’s pink lips: ‘Don’t.’ Lavellan, feeling on edge as the group’s tension swelled, darted her gaze between the three of them, a flash of sharp emotion in her gut. Anger, she reasoned, because it certainly couldn’t be fear. Whatever it was, it had her elbowing her way to the forefront of the crowd.

 

The mage did not heed Trevelyan’s suggestion, shrugging free of her grip and taking a half-step away from her. “Your kind let her die!” he accused the other side with a hard, triumphant smirk when the Templar flinched.

 

Trevelyan’s honey-brown eyes widened, face slackening in shock. Lavellan, seeing the Templar’s jaw tighten and hands curl into fists, strode to stand next to her. She noticed the Templar reaching for his sword and felt a flash of something predatory, feral.

 

“Draw your blade and lose a hand, shem,” Lavellan threatened with a growl, right hand coming to rest on the hilt of her own sword. The Templar halted in his tracks, brows furrowed, perplexed.

 

Cullen appeared at her side, moving between the two of them. “Enough!” he commanded sternly, putting a hand on the Templar’s shoulder and forcing him to step back.

 

“Knight-Captain!” the Templar responded on reflex, akin to a verbal salute.

 

Cullen frowned. “That is not my title. We are not Templars any longer.” He cast a look at the mages as well. “We are all a part of the Inquisition.”

 

“And what exactly does that entail, I wonder?” A voice cut through the air. Chancellor Roderick, the snake of a shem, stepped forward, hands behind his back, his bushy brows furrowed.

 

Cullen’s face twisted to match Lavellan’s disgust, but Trevelyan was the first to answer. “It means working together, Chancellor. Which we need to do to close the Breach, as you well know.” Her tone, while not icy by normal standards, compared to usual was cold.

 

Roderick’s eyes narrowed. “By what order-”

 

Lavellan, seething, couldn’t stand to hear another word. “By the order of someone far more important than you, shem.”

 

Roderick looked affronted, his mouth opening then closing, nostrils flaring. Beside her, Cullen chuckled.

 

“That’s enough,” Cullen said again, the vague hint of a smile on his lips. He drew himself up, gazing at the assembled crowd. “Get back to your duties, all of you.”

 

At the order and ending spectacle, everyone dispersed. Roderick gave Lavellan a black look, taking a beleaguered Cullen aside. Lavellan turned to Trevelyan.

 

“You can take your hand off your sword,” Trevelyan pointed out, a slight edge to her voice.

 

Lavellan blinked. She hadn’t realized, but sure enough, her hand was still gripping the hilt of her sword tightly. She released it, crossing her arms instead.

 

Trevelyan sighed, bringing a hand up to massage her temples. “Maker. To think they were close to trading blows…”

 

“It would have been a rather one-sided trade, shem,” Lavellan remarked pointedly. “The mage is not the one who attempted to draw his weapon.” That the Templar was so quick to anger, so quick to violence, made Lavellan’s skin crawl. It was predatory behavior, the type that caused her people to fear shemlen.

 

Trevelyan frowned. “A mage is a weapon. Always. It’s inherent to our very being,” she said heatedly, looking away.

 

Lavellan’s jaw tightened, frustration bubbling at the familiar argument. “Mages are people first.” She thought of her Keeper, her clan’s wise and kind leader. She thought of the Keeper’s apprentice, the bumbling idiot he often was. She thought of Trevelyan herself, annoying but good-hearted (though Lavellan would never utter that aloud). Was it really their fate to be treated like animals because of their ability? Lavellan couldn’t understand the concept.

 

Trevelyan said nothing, and Lavellan couldn’t glimpse her reaction before the shem turned away, retreating quickly in the direction of the apothecary. Lavellan let her go without another word, suspecting it would be wasted anyway. The shem was too wrapped up in her beliefs, in the beliefs of the Templars and the shemlen Circle.

 

Stupid shem. Though every time Lavellan thought the phrase, it lost some of its vigor. Still. Stupid shem.

  
And stupid Lavellan, because it was horrifyingly undeniable that she was starting to _care_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright 2 quick story-related notes. First, just a reminder that this story is a very different tone from "Trading Secrets." Not as light-hearted and fluffy. Baby Trev has some issues, Lavellan has some issues. Make no mistake, it's going to have a happy ending, but there's going to be a lot more character development in order to get there.
> 
> Second, on a happier note. I thought I'd let you all decide what path to take vis a vis siding with mages or Templars. Siding with Templars means Maxwell Trevelyan joins the Inquisition, while siding with mages means you get...someone else (3 guesses who lol). They'll both show up, it's just who you want to keep.
> 
> Oh wait, one more note: the thing the recruit did, giving himself a bloody nose? Yeah, that's taken from real life. My cousin and I were messing around and had the bright idea to play baseball with a basketball... He threw it at me and I tried to block it rather than swing or, y'know, get out of the way. Boom. Bat to the face. Lots of blood. Kinda hurt, and was 100% as dumb and embarrassing as it sounds.


End file.
